


Inked

by theRavensdesk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 64,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theRavensdesk/pseuds/theRavensdesk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The major events of Jo's life can be read on her skin - if you know how to look. And if there's one thing that Sherlock is good at, it's looking. But it's not always that simple, and he can't always understand what the ink is telling him. </p><p>Post-Riechenbach with fem!John. Tags will be added as the story progresses, and rating may go up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jo stumbled into the startlingly bright June sunlight and winced. She was more exhausted than she could ever remember being, and that was counting med-school, her residency, and pulling double, and sometimes triple, shifts in an active war zone; of course becoming a fugitive — hostage — whatever — took a lot of effort, which would have been fine, really, if it hadn’t been for what had happened at Bart's. It seemed like an eternity since she had last been outside, but it had barely been twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours and her entire world seemed to have collapsed. She had been taken into police custody shortly after Sherlock’s jump, and, after hours of repetitive questioning, was released early the next morning.

It was Monday and the city was just coming to life with restaurants opening and people bustling to work. She could vaguely remember being signed up for a shift at the surgery, but even calling in sick seemed like too monumental of a task for her to deal with just then. Going back to Baker Street was absolutely out of the question - she had just enough energy to hope that someone had broken the news to Mrs. Hudson gently - so she hailed a cab and gave the address for the one place in the world she still felt safe.

Jo knocked on the plain door, praying that Mary hadn’t left for work already and steadying herself for disappointment; when the door opened, her relief was so palpable that her knees buckled. Luckily, Mary Morstan’s reflexes had always been superb, and she managed to catch her friend before she hit the ground, practically carrying her to the couch. Now that she had reached her goal it was as if her strings had been cut and Jo collapsed gratefully onto the cushions. She let out a shaky sigh when Mary sat down and allowed the soldier to lean against her solid body.

“I heard what happened,” Mary whispered, softly petting Jo’s hair. “It was on the news.”

Jo squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to speak. “He isn’t — wasn’t — a fake. He didn’t do any of the things they say he did.”

“I know,” she answered. “You believe in him and that’s more than enough for me.” The doctor just nodded, not knowing what else to say.

A few minutes later Mary shifted, her grip on her friend becoming more firm. “Come on, let’s get you into bed. You need sleep, and the couch will kill your shoulder.” Jo didn’t respond but moved when she was prompted. Mary’s flat was small, so the trip to the bedroom was short. Even so, it seemed to be almost too much for Jo, and after watching her fumble helplessly with the buttons on her jacket for a few moments Mary stepped in and helped her get undressed and into bed. Mary went to close the curtains and when she returned Jo latched onto the sleeve of her shirt with almost childlike desperation.

“I don’t know if I can sleep,” she whispered, not looking directly at her friend.

Mary forced a smile. “That’s alright. Give it a try, and if it doesn’t work then I’ll give you something to help.” Jo nodded and squeezed her eyes shut again. A full minute passed with neither woman speaking or moving.

“Stay,” Jo finally said, her voice barely audible. “Please.”

“Of course,” she agreed, slowly pulling away to strip down herself. “As long as you need me to; I’ve already called in sick for today.” Jo just nodded and let herself be be manipulated until both women were as comfortable as possible. She buried her face in the warm, dark space between her friend’s neck and shoulder and finally let herself cry as Mary rubbed soothing circles on her back.

****************

Jo didn’t leave Mary’s flat again for an entire week, and even then, she only left because she was in desperate need of her own clothes. Mary went with her while Mrs. Hudson was out in order to get the essentials and the whole trip was over within an hour and a half; she felt bad for avoiding her landlady, but she couldn’t bare to deal with the other woman’s grief as well as her own. She had finally called into work and had been granted a leave of absence, and she had built up enough of a savings working with Sherlock that she didn’t have to worry about money for at least a month or two — especially since Mary had offered to let her stay with her for as long as she needed.

The funeral was a quiet affair, planned entirely by Mycroft (not that Jo had wanted any part in it), with only a handful of Sherlock’s family and friends. Angelo cried loudly in the back and Mrs. Hudson sobbed quietly at Jo’s side; Mary, of course, held her hand through the whole thing. Lestrade gave the eulogy. It was obviously sincere and heart felt, and when he got choked up half-way through Jo could see the guilt written all over him; she still couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for him.

They left shortly after the service. Jo had no desire to speak with anyone there; Mrs. Hudson wasn’t sure she could manage interacting with any of them without losing her temper, and Mary, who had become rather fond of the landlady since she had shown up at her flat unexpectedly, demanding to see Jo, had been itching to get both women out of there from the moment they arrived. They went out to lunch because while neither of them were really hungry, Mary had implemented a strict meal plan as soon as she realized that without prompting Jo would simply have ceased to eat. They sat in silence, sullenly picking at their food. Finally, Mrs. Hudson broke the silence.

“You never met Sherlock, did you Mary?” She asked, forcing herself to sound cheerful. She continued when the brunette shook her head. “You would have liked him, I think. He was very sweet, in his own way. And painfully honest. He wasn’t nearly as heartless as he wanted people to believe he was.”

Mary smiled, eager to hear more about the man her friend hardly spoke about. “How did you meet him, then? Jo says that you knew him longer than anyone else.” At this Jo finally perked up, interested in the conversation for the first time; she had never managed to get any more of the story than Sherlock’s original pronouncement on the subject.

“Yes, he was twenty-one, I think, when we met,” she answered, smiling fondly as she remembered. “Still in uni at any rate. My niece went to school with him, and she mentioned that he sometimes helped students with their problems.

“My husband had already been convicted in Florida, but his lawyers said that they had found new evidence that would prove his innocence. I knew better than anyone that he had killed those girls, and that if he was released I would be the first one he came for. So I paid for Sherlock to go with me to the hearing and he proved that the lawyers had fabricated the evidence; it was huge scandal.

“He wouldn’t let me pay him anything, either. He refused to take anything from anyone; I think it almost killed him that his family was paying his tuition. He did come by and let me feed him up once a month or so. He'd fall asleep on my couch after dinner, every time like clockwork; I think he just liked knowing that there was someone else around, the poor thing. He was so lonely, at least until you came around, Jo; I was so glad that he found someone."

Jo shook her head. "We weren’t together. We were just friends. I’m surprised I managed to catch his attention at all."

"I saw the two of you together, and there wasn’t anything ‘just’ about your friendship," she replied seriously. She softened her tone and continued. "I don't think I'd ever seen him take to anyone the way he took to you. He tried to impress you, cleaning up the flat and taking you to those suicides. Don't you dare think he was anything other than utterly fascinated by you, Jo Watson."

She smiled. "If you say so. Although I think that may have been his one and only attempt at cleaning. You'd think that a man with a sock index would have been a bit more particular about where he put his things." The other two women chuckled, and so Jo launched into another story about Sherlock's antics, which was followed by Mrs. Hudson answering with one of her own. They continued for hours, and Mary wouldn't have stopped them for the world, happy that Jo was showing any sign of progress, no matter how small.

****************

Three weeks after Sherlock’s jump, Jo went back to work. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to go back to Baker Street again after she and Mary had gone to pack some of her things, but she knew that she couldn’t hide away forever and going back to work was definitely good way to start her return to society. Her shift was exhausting - although in a pleasant way - but she still made it back to flat before Mary did. Wanting to stay busy, she set about making dinner. The meal was almost done when Mary came in, her arms loaded with folders filled with papers that stuck out haphazardly. Her suit was well tailored and flattering, even though it was badly rumpled after a long day at the office; the pinstripes slimmed her never-going-to-be-hourglass figure and the navy blue went well with her olive skin tone and dark brown hair. Taller than Jo barefoot, the heels she wore made it more than noticeable. Her hair had started to escape from its bun and was wisping around her face and curling at the nape of her neck; her plump cheeks were flushed from the summer heat.

"Honey, I'm home," she announced, sounding frazzled yet cheerful.

Jo smiled at her. "How was the office, dear?"

"Hellish," she answered, plopping her folders on the counter-top. "You would not believe the people I have to deal with. I'll tell you about it over dinner."

She nodded. "Alright, it'll be ready in a mo. You should get changed."

"Right, I'll just slip into something more comfortable." She joked, waggling her eyebrows. Jo laughed and turned back to the stove.

Mary came back dressed in sweats and a vest just as Jo was putting the food on the table. “This smells fantastic. It’s nice to come home to a hot meal.”

“Well don’t get used to it,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “I just wanted to keep my hands busy.” After a beat of silence she continued, forcing some cheerfulness into her voice. “Anyway, you were going to tell me about your day. Just hold on a sec; I even have wine.”

Her friend grinned, settling into a chair. “Wine and dinner? You should be sainted; I’ll start the petition myself.”

“I don’t think that that sort of thing is done by petition,” she answered dryly. “So, what happened? Did your new assistant start hitting on you again?”

She laughed. “No, I managed to shut that down pretty effectively the last time he tried it; although I think I might have preferred dealing with that. Instead I had to deal with seventy year old billionaire, his twenty-nine year old fiance, and his snobby children. He wanted me to write up a pre-nuptial agreement for them, but his obnoxious children kept butting in every two minutes because, apparently, a basic pre-nup wasn’t good enough for dear old dad and his mounds of cash. I could barely get a word in edge wise.”

“Oh the horror,” Jo teased. “It must be awful for a barrister not to be the loudest person in the room.”

“Shut up,” Mary answered, scowling at the other woman. Jo shrugged sheepishly and the barrister continued her story. “Then I had to spend my lunch-hour at the shop because apparently my new artist didn’t show up for her appointment and I had to cover for her. And by the time I got back to the office I was late for my meeting with the partners at my firm, so I had to pay penance by staying late. The Tube was late and over-crowded, as usual, and I still have tons of research I need to do for one of my cases.”

Jo grimaced sympathetically. “Have you ever considered that only having one career might make your life a whole lot easier?”

“I have, actually,” she replied, taking a drink of wine. “But what’s the fun in that? Besides, what would I do with the shop? Dad would spin in his grave if I sold it, and I love tattooing. I just need to hire more reliable people.”

“Yes, because artists are known for being terribly reliable and consistent,” she muttered sarcastically.

Mary rolled her eyes. “You’re just jealous of my ridiculously exciting life. Why don’t you regale me with your fascinating tales of treating London’s hypochondriacs.” Jo laughed, ignoring a twinge at how similar to Sherlock that sounded, and launched into a story about an eighty year old couple who had been married for sixty years coming in looking for sex tips; it kept them both thoroughly entertained for the rest of the meal.

Later, Mary insisted on doing the dishes, despite Jo’s best attempts to get her to let her help. In the end she was shooed away, dropping a brief kiss to Mary’s lips in thanks. She made it all the way to the sitting room before realizing that she had just kissed her friend and that that wasn’t a very platonic thing to do. She sat down on the couch and waited, not sure of what she was going to say when Mary came back out.

When Mary finally did come out of the kitchen she leaned against the door jam and crossed her arms. “So.”

“Yep,” Jo answered, not sure what else to say.

Mary sighed. “We’ve done it before; it doesn’t have to change anything.”

“True,” she agreed. “But it’s been a while; we’re not kids any more.”

She nodded. “Jo, you’re my best friend, and a damn good shag; we know from experience that we can keep those two things separate. I’m not cut out for monogamy; you know that. All I’m offering is easy comfort and a good time. But only if you want it.”

“It won’t work if I stay here,” Jo answered after a moment of consideration. “I’ll have to find my own place.”

Mary broke into a smile. “I’ll help you look for one this weekend.”

“So we’re really going to do this?” She asked, smiling hesitantly herself.

She nodded. “If it’s what you want.”

There was another pause before Jo nodded as well. “It’s what I want.” Mary’s smile morphed into a grin and she moved gracefully to the couch, cupping Jo’s face and pulling her into a languid kiss. 


	2. Chapter 2

Jo and Mary had been sleeping together for a little over a month, and things were quite honestly going better than Jo had ever expected them to. She had her own flat and was starting to look for a job that was a little bit more challenging now that she was no longer chasing criminals around London. She still spent a couple nights a week at Mary’s, though, and every weekend.

All in all, she was doing much better than she imagined she would in the days directly after Sherlock's jump. And if she still had a frighteningly accurate count of how long it had been since Sherlock jumped, then that was no one's business but her own.

It was Friday night and Jo couldn't sleep. She thought about getting up and doing something productive like making a dent in her ever growing stack of medical journals (last Christmas Sherlock had, in a move of shocking sentimentality, given her a year's subscription to every journal she could possibly want), but the bed was comfortable and Mary's solid presence beside her was incredibly soothing. Mary, for her part, wasn't asleep either and seemed about as willing to get up and do something else as Jo was. She had pushed Jo onto her back and was now tracing her tattoos - the ones she could reach at least; she was focusing mostly on the red Afghani poppies that were interspersed with grenades and sutures, helmets and scalpels, SA80 rifles and bandages. The flowers started in a bunch on the center of her back and spread out with tendrils wrapping around to rest underneath her breasts, reaching down to her waistline and around her hips, and climbing up to her shoulder blades — almost touching the skull that rested over a crossed scalpel and syringe on her right shoulder blade (she had gotten that one done in celebration of finishing medical school). Occasionally Mary’s hand drifted to trace Jo’s military identification number, which ran down her left ribcage (she had had that one done as a precaution before she left for her first tour in Afghanistan). Mary’s lips were resting lightly on the RAMC emblem on Jo’s right bicep (she had liked that one since the moment Jo had got it; the doctor had never been able to quite figure out why). After an undetermined length of time which Jo spent trying her best to think of nothing but the sensation of Mary’s fingers on her skin, the brunette shifted and sat up, dropping a lingering kiss on the black Dahlia and thorns inked on Jo’s right forearm on her way up.

“Jo,” she said quietly, rubbing her thumb soothingly along her friend’s hipbone. “You were in love with him, weren’t you.” Jo shook her head, ignoring how fast her heart was suddenly pounding. Mary rolled her eyes. “We both know that you know who I’m talking about, so don’t even try to pretend that you don’t understand.”

Jo sighed. “Mary we were just friends; you know that.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t love him,” she answered kindly.

She glared up at her friend. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mary. You sound like you should be writing for The Sun. He was one of the best friends I’ve ever had, but I wasn’t in love with him.”

“Jo, I’ve known you since we were eighteen, don’t lie to me,” she answered, raising her voice slightly. “You don’t have to admit it if you don’t want to, but at the very least stop denying it. You owe it to yourself to stop lying.” Jo opened her mouth to continue protesting, but she slowly closed it again, knowing that Mary was too kind to gloat in her silence.

Mary smiled and rewarded her friend with a soft kiss before sitting up again and rubbing thoughtfully at her friend’s left arm. “Have you thought about getting another tattoo done? You need to even out your left and right sides.”

Jo shrugged, relaxing again after their conversation. “I haven’t really thought about it. I don’t know what I would get.”

“You could get something for him,” she suggested. “To commemorate your time together. I could design something for you; it wouldn’t have to be obvious to anyone else.”

She nodded after a few moments. “I think that would be great, thank you. If you don’t mind the extra work, that is.”

“Don’t be stupid, Jo,” she huffed. “I’ve been looking for a new project anyway. And your skin inks so beautifully; you’re a dream to tattoo. Now go make me tea, and I’ll start sketching.” Jo rolled her eyes but pushed herself off the mattress, snagging her own bathrobe off the floor and headed out to the kitchen.

A few minutes later Mary joined her, sitting at the kitchen table with her sketch book. “Alright, tell me about him. What’s the first thing that pops into your head when you think of him?”

“A cat,” Jo replied, smiling. “He was ridiculously like a cat. He would curl up on the couch and play with balls of string if I left them lying about. I swear, last winter I found him curled up on the heater because he was cold. And if you scratched him behind his ears he purred.”

Mary laughed and started sketching. “Alright, what else?”

“His violin,” she answered, her smile becoming a bit more sad. “He played his violin like you tattoo — with everything he had. People always sad that he was so emotionless — hell, sometimes he tried to pretend that it was true — but no one who had ever listened to him really play could honestly believe it.” Mary nodded and Jo kept speaking, describing her friend, their life together, their cases, and whatever else popped into her head when she thought of Sherlock Holmes.

******************

Two weeks later Jo was sitting on a table in Mary’s shop and doing her best to hold perfectly still as the other woman tattooed her. She had decided to go with a full sleeve on her left arm, mostly because she hadn’t been able to decide on only one image. The focal point was a large black cat, twitching it’s tail. The cat was surrounded by smaller images that blended together seamlessly: the pink rolling suitcase leading up to the aeroplane (from the Adler fiasco), which had two ninjas on the wing. There was a rabbit cuddled up to the cat and 007 was scrawled along the tail (symbolizing their surprisingly frequent bond nights). There were other images, of course: some from their cases (like Chinese teapots) and some from their life (like the science equipment scattered throughout the scene). On the inside of her arm the words ‘Welcome to London’ were written in Sherlock’s elegant script. The whole piece would probably take months to complete, but Mary had finished all the outlines and lettering in one sitting, and Jo was more than pleased with her work.

Mary had just finished wrapping her arm when Jo’s phone rang. It was an organization that ran several battered women shelters throughout the London area. She had applied for a job there and they were calling to set up an interview for the following Monday. Of all the jobs Jo had applied for recently, this was the one that she had wanted the most. She rang off with a grin and couldn’t help beaming at her friend as she slipped her phone into her pocket.

“Who was that?” Her friend asked, intrigued by how happy her friend looked.

Jo got to her feet before answering. “Hopefully my new boss. I’ve got an interview next week.”

“That’s great Jo,” she replied. “Come on, let’s go to lunch. You can tell me all about it.” Jo agreed and let Mary take her arm as they walked out of the shop.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Jo couldn’t remember the last time she was so nervous about a job interview; she also couldn’t remember the last time she had wanted a job so badly. She felt like the interview had gone well, and it was the first one in a while where she hadn’t been asked about Sherlock; she wasn’t sure if that meant that the interviewer didn’t know who she was or that she had some modicum of tact, but it was refreshing all the same.

“Well, Dr. Watson, I must say that you are definitely qualified for the position,” said Dr. Jane Andrews, the head of the organization. “But I have to be honest with you: the position you’ve applied for isn’t the one I’d like hire you for. There’s another position available that I think might be a bit better suited to your abilities.”

Jo frowned. “What do you mean? I’m just a doctor; what sort of position would I be better suited for?”

“It’s actually a new position,” she answered, her voice gaining excitement. “We’ve recently gotten a rather large increase in funding and have decided to become international. We’ve already assisted in opening clinics in several different European countries, but next year we’re going to start opening our own clinics around the world. We need someone with strong leadership capabilities and experience operating overseas to lead the projects. You’ll also be expected to see regular patients in between projects.

“Of course, if you aren’t interested then you’re welcome to the position you actually applied for.”

Jo shook her head. “No, it sounds great.”

“Fantastic!” Andrews replied. “When can you start?”

She smiled. “Two weeks. I have to quit my job. I’ll give notice today.”

“Good,” she stood up and offered her hand for Jo to shake. “I’ll send you an email with more of the specifics.” Jo shook her hand and left, feeling happier than she had in a while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is late. I left Sunday morning to move across the country and meant to have this ready to post before I left, but I forgot.

Jo got off the plane feeling absolutely exhausted. She had been working for the Women’s Protective Clinics for three months and was just returning from her first project abroad. She had worked with another organization to set up a women’s clinic in Latvia; she hadn’t really been in a leadership position for the trip, but she had learned a lot and was excited to start planning her own operation. As soon as she made it through customs and the baggage claim, she hailed a cab and gave the driver Mary’s address. She was dying for a shower and a soft bed, but going back to her empty flat really wasn’t all that appealing. Besides, Mary was expecting her.

She was greeted at the door with a kiss. “Jo! You’re back! You were supposed to text me when you left the airport; I was going to have dinner ready for you.”

“Sorry,” Jo answered sheepishly, setting her bag down inside the door. “My phone was dead. And it’s not like you were going to cook anyway. I’ll just take a quick shower while you call out. I’ll eat whatever you order.” Mary agreed and gave her a light shove towards the bathroom.

When Jo came out of the shower, wrapped in a bathrobe that smelled like Mary, Chinese food was spread out on the table. “You are a goddess on earth. I’m starving.”

“Then sit down and eat,” Mary answered, sitting down herself. “I want to hear all about your trip.”

After dinner Mary opened a bottle of wine and they moved to the couch. They were about halfway through the bottle when someone knocked firmly on the door. After a pleading look from Mary, Jo sighed and got up to answer it. She was smiling as she opened the door, but it quickly morphed into a frown when she saw who was on the other side.

“Jo, what are you doing here? Your landlady said that you were living in a different part of the city,” Lestrade said, looking rather shell-shocked.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “She’s not my landlady any more, and last I checked, I wasn’t required to tell Scotland Yard where I live. I’m allowed to have friends you know.”

“Oh, of course, I didn’t mean…” he trailed off guiltily.

She sighed. “What do you want?”

“Can I come in?” He asked, shifting back into professionalism.

“Do you have a warrant?” She countered, raising her voice.

“Jo, what’s wrong?” Mary asked, drawn to the door by the sound of Jo’s agitation. “Who’s at the door?”

Lestrade turned to her. “I’m DI Lestrade, from Scotland Yard. There’s been a murder in your building; I just wanted to check if you two had heard anything.”

“We didn’t, goodbye,” Jo answered angrily. “Thanks you for serving and protecting, or whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Ignore her; she gets cranky when she’s tired. Come in, please. Would you like a cuppa?”

“No thanks,” he answered, stepping inside. “But thanks anyway. I just have a few questions for you two.”

She nodded. “Of course. We can go to the living room.” She took Jo by the arm and led her to the sofa, Lestrade following behind. Greg asked his questions as quickly as possible, trying to pretend that it wasn’t incredibly awkward. Mary answered them politely and with a smile, while Jo glared at the detective the entire time.

When he finally left Mary turned to Jo with her hands on her hips. “Was that really necessary? Couldn’t you see how awful he felt?”

“I damn well hope he feels like shit,” Jo yelled. “Do you have any idea what that man did? He came into our home and arrested Sherlock for kidnapping on evidence that was circumstantial at best. He handcuffed him and led him out and he wasn’t even resisting. Sherlock trusted him; he respected him. Hell, that man was the closest goddamn thing to a father-figure Sherlock had. And twenty-four hours later he jumped off a fucking building. So I bloody well hope that he feels like absolute shit! Mary do you understand? I can’t be in the same fucking room at him without wanting to either deck him or go jump off the same shitty building Sherlock did!

“So don’t tell me I’m overreacting, Mary. Because I’m doing the best I can here, and I’m sorry if it’s not good enough, but I don’t know what else I can do.”

Mary reached over and pulled her into her arms. “Oh Jo, honey. I didn’t know. I thought you were better.”

Jo sighed, shaking her head. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said that.”

She shook her head. “No. You thinking about jumping off buildings is definitely on the list of things I definitely need to know about.”

“It’s not that bad, really,” she answered quietly. “I don’t act on every impulse I have, especially not the suicidal ones. And I’m okay, really. My life’s not great, but I’ve got a job that I like, and I’ve got you, and I’ve even started dating people who aren’t you. So it’s not great, but it’s okay. Honest.”

Mary pressed a careful kiss to her friend’s forehead. “You have to tell me if you’re ever not okay. Please, Jo. I can’t lose you; I don’t know what I would do. You’re all I’ve got.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” Jo promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***************

The next Saturday morning found Mary home alone. Jo had a morning shift at the clinic, and Mary was working in her tattoo parlor that afternoon, but they were going to meet up for dinner that evening. She was just getting ready to leave when someone knocked on the door. She opened it to find DI standing there awkwardly in faded blue jeans and a t-shirt.

“What do you want?” She asked, sounding far less pleasant than he had the night before.

Lestrade cleared his throat nervously. “I need to speak with Jo, and I don’t know where else to find her. Please. There’s something I need to show her; she’ll want to see it, I promise.”

“Fine,” she answered with a sigh. “But if you hurt her, you’ll have me to deal with me.

“I have to go to work now, but Jo will be back a little after lunch. You can wait here. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, but if you go in my bedroom I’ll know.”

***********

Jo was more tired than she probably should have been after half a shift, but she was still suffering from jet-lag. So she was less than thrilled when she walked into Mary’s flat to find Greg Lestrade sitting on the couch with a beer.

“You do know that breaking and entering is, in fact, a crime,” she said, dropping her keys on the table.

He forced a smile. “I didn’t break in; Mary let me wait here. I need to talk to you.”

“That’s funny,” she answered, sounding less than amused. “Because the last I need to be doing is talking to you. So I think that you should get the fuck out of here.”

“It’s about Sherlock,” he blurted, desperate to get her to listen to him. “I know why he jumped.”

Jo froze. “You what?”

“There was a recording,” he said, deciding to just plow through. “On his phone. Moriarty was up there with him, and Sherlock recorded everything they said. I tried to find you earlier to show it to you, but I didn’t know where to find you and it’s not like you were answering my calls. Still, you deserve to hear this.” She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Lestrade pulled a digital recorder out of his pocket and pressed play.

The recording started with the tinny sound of Moriarty playing “Stayin’ Alive” and ended with her phone call with Sherlock. By the time Lestrade stopped the recording there were tears streaming down her face and she could barely breathe. Greg pulled her into a hug, not knowing what to say to make anything better.

A few minutes later she pulled away, making futile attempts to wipe away her tears. “I’m sorry. I’m normally better at keeping it together.”

“It’s okay,” he answered, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “I bawled like a baby after I first heard it. You can keep this copy; do whatever you want with it. Give it to the press, whatever you want. I would have done it myself, but I didn’t want you to find out like that. And besides, you’re the one who stood by him; you should be the one to decide what to do with this.”

She sniffed, not even bothering to fight back the fresh tears. “I loved him. I loved him more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my entire life. And I never told him. I never told anyone; hell, I barely even let myself think it. You’re the only one I’ve ever told. I was going to spend the rest of my life chasing after that man, but I never even managed to tell him that much. I was too much of a coward to tell him what he meant to me, and he jumped of a fucking building to save my life. He never knew.”

“Jo,” he said quietly. “Sherlock was the most observant man I’ve ever met; I’m sure he knew.” Jo just nodded.

*********

Mary breathed out a heavy sigh. “Christ, Jo. That’s, something. I don’t really know what, but it’s something.” Jo just nodded, clenching the recorder in her hand.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, shaking her head. “I have to do something, but I don’t know what.”

She took a deep breath. “Do you want to know what I think?” Jo nodded and she continued. “I think you should sue. Kitty Riley, The Sun, anyone you can think of. Sue for libel, slander, and defamation of character. Make them pay for what they did. I can’t promise that it’ll make you feel better, but it’ll at least be something for you to focus on. I’d be happy to handle the case, for you; if you decide that that’s what you want to do.”

“Alright,” Jo said after a few moments. “Let’s do this. What do you need me to do?”

She leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ll take care of everything, I promise.”

************

Four months later Mary and Jo were sitting in a conference room with Kitty Riley, representatives from The Sun, and their team of lawyers. The trial was finally starting the next week, and this was their last attempt to get her to settle. They were offering her 1.5 million pounds, which was, honestly, more than she had ever expected to get — not that she was planning on taking it.

“I’m not settling,” she said, making sure to keep her voice as firm as possible.

The lawyers had a brief conversation before turning back to her. “What about two million? This is a lot of money Ms Watson.”

“It’s Dr. Watson, actually,” she replied, her tone even harder than before. “And I don’t care how much money it is. I’m not going to settle. You made a public spectacle of Sherlock, and now you’re going to have to pay for it. You should have done your research, and then maybe we wouldn’t be here. I’ll see you next week.” She stood up and walked out, Mary following quickly behind.

A month later the trial was over. The court had ruled in favor of Jo and had awarded her five million pounds in reparations. She cared lest about the money, though, and more about the fact that over the course of the trial they had effectively cleared Sherlock’s name of all allegations. She wasn’t sure that she would have been able to get through the trial without Mary, but now that it was done, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do.

They were met on the steps by hoards of reporters, all shouting questions. Jo let Mary corral them into some semblance of order. She answered their questions as simply as possible — yes, she felt vindicated; yes, she was glad people knew the truth about Sherlock; no, she wasn’t going to keep the money: she was going to donate to various suicide prevention organizations — but she felt sort of detached from the whole situation. It wasn’t until the last question that she became really interested in what was going on.

A pretty blond reporter — Jo hadn’t heard whom she was writing for — managed to push her way to the front and asked, “Dr. Watson, is there anything you would like to say to Kitty Riley and The Sun?” Jo froze for what seemed to her to be an eternity; she knew that she should probably say something ambiguous and non-confrontational, but, surprisingly enough, diplomacy had never been her strong suit: it was only when she was compared to Sherlock that she seemed conciliatory.

“There are a lot of things I’d like to say to them,” she answered, sounding very sure of herself. “But I think Sherlock said it best when he first met Miss Riley: You repel me.” Mary cut off all of the other questions as she took Jo by the arm and led her quickly away. 


	4. Chapter 4

Jo’s heart was pounding as she fumbled with her keys, trying to unlock her door while simultaneously snogging her current boyfriend-thing. They had been on a couple of dates, but this time they hadn’t even made it to dinner before she dragged him upstairs. She finally got the door open and she let Mike push her into the flat. He stripped off her shirt and began maneuvering her towards her bed. He pushed her back, but instead of hitting the mattress, she landed on a human shaped lump. She yelled and pushed herself back up, bracing for a fight. What she was not prepared for, however, was to see Sherlock Holmes sit up in her bed, looking sleep mussed and mildly terrified; it quite literally knocked the air out of her lungs.

“Who the bloody fuck are you?” David yelled, turning red. “Jo, what’s this doing in your bed? I’m calling the cops!”

“Get out,” Jo whispered, reaching out to stop David from going for his phone.

Sherlock nodded, looking like he was gutted and trying to hide it. “Alright, I’ll just go.”

“No, you stay,” she ordered. “David, get out.”

“What do you mean ‘get out?’” David asked, still yelling. “Who the fuck is this Jo? If you don’t start telling me what’s going on, right now, then we’re over!”

“Fine,” she answered, not taking her eyes off of Sherlock. “We’re over. You were getting boring anyway. Get out.” David spluttered briefly before storming out.

Sherlock finally stood up, still looking nervous. “Jo I’m sorry; I can explain. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but you were later than I expected, and it’s not like there’s anywhere else comfortable to sit.” Jo looked around at her sparse one room flat: the only place to sit other than her bed were the rickety, and admittedly uncomfortable kitchen chairs.

She snorted. “Somehow I’m less concerned about you falling asleep on my bed than I am about you sleeping at all.”

“Right, of course,” he answered, nodding. “I can explain that too. Just don’t kick me out, please.” She let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob and lunged forward. Sherlock braced for her to take a swing at him, but instead she wrapped him in a hug. He let out a shaky breath of his own and hugged her back.

Sherlock had never been this close to so much of Jo’s bare skin at one time. He spread his hand against her back and buried his nose in her hair; he closed his eyes and reveled in the sensations of ‘home’ that Jo inevitably brought with her. Jo pressed her face against his neck and squeezed her arms around him. He could feel it when she started to cry and he just held her closer, trying to ignore the wetness in his own eyes. A long while later Jo started to pull away and he reluctantly let her go. She turned and looked around before grabbing a vest out of her dresser and pulling it over her head.

“I really am sorry about ruining your date,” he said after they had been silent for a few more minutes.

She laughed, genuinely this time. “I never thought that you’d apologize for ruining one of my dates. But don’t worry about it; this is much more interesting. I thought you were dead.” She paused before adding, “Thank you, for what you did. At Bart’s I mean. I don’t think I can thank you enough for what you did. And for surviving it.”

“I would have still done it,” he answered. “If I didn’t have a plan; I would have still done it.”

She shook her head, sobering immediately. “Fuck Sherlock. You can just say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s what you would have done,” he answered seriously. She just shook her head again, not knowing what else to say.

After a few moments she reached out for him again, grabbing hold of his arm. “I think I need to examine you. Because I saw you die, and I’m sorry, but I need to make sure that you’re okay. So if you could please go into the kitchen, I’m going to get my med kit out of the bathroom. Please Sherlock; I just need to see that everything is okay because the last time I saw you, you were broken.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “Anything you want.”

When Jo came back out with her med-kit, Sherlock was sitting on the kitchen table in his boxers. She nodded but didn’t say anything. She went through her examination in silence, not even bothering to make her usual jokes. Sherlock seemed to be in good enough health — all considered. He was far too skinny with more scars than when he had left and she could feel that he had broken several ribs even without the aid of x-rays, but despite all of that, he was in relatively good health. She was in the middle of checking his reflexes when it all became too much for her. Her knees buckled and she collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs, her chest heaving as she hyperventilated. She pressed her forehead against his thigh as she squeezed her eyes shut against even more tears.

Sherlock began to gently run his fingers through her hair, hoping to be soothing. “It’s alright, Jo. Just breathe. Focus on breathing.” She nodded and focused all of her attention on taking deep, even breaths, and ignoring the fact that they sounded more like sobs than anything else.

She shook her head, which was still pressed against his leg. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m freaking out like this. I’m supposed to be happy; I am happy. Hell, I’m thrilled — beyond thrilled. I don’t understand. This isn’t okay, and I don’t know why.” She finally sat up, wiping ineffectually at her face.

“Jo, I don’t expect you to be fine with this,” he answered, forcing himself not to fidget nervously. “This isn’t like finding a head in the fridge or mold under the sink. I don’t expect you to just deal with this and move like you do with everything else I throw at you.”

She shook her head, smiling a bit. “What does it say about my life that decapitation is placed on equal footing with mold?”

“It’s definitely not dull,” he answered, returning her smile.

She shook her head. “Life with you is anything but dull.” She paused and her smile grew into a grin. “Life with you. Sherlock, you’re alive! Screw everything else: we’ll figure it out — we always do. But this is fantastic!

“Now put your clothes back on. I’m going to order us dinner, and you’re going to eat it without complaining because you’re bordering on dangerously underweight.”

“Yes ma’am,” he answered, amazed by his friend’s ability to take everything he did in stride. 


	5. Chapter 5

That night over dinner, Sherlock talked. He explained how he survived jumping from the roof of Bart’s; how Mycroft had been helping him and keeping him updated about life back at home; and what he’d been doing since. Jo would have happily listened to him speak for days, but he started holding back yawns at around eleven.

“Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?” She asked, hoping that he’d say no.

He shook his head. “Not really, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find somewhere to go. I can leave if you want to go to bed. I understand if you’re tired after all of this.”

“I’m not the one who’s exhausted here,” she answered, rolling her eyes.

He shrugged a little sheepishly. “I don’t sleep well when I’m not in England.”

“Well you can sleep here tonight, if you want,” she said nervously. “There’s only the one bed, but if you don’t mind…” She trailed off, not wanting to admit that she wanted to keep him as close as she could, even if that meant sharing a bed.

“I don’t mind,” he replied, wincing at how quickly he answered. “I mean, I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”

She nodded. “Alright then. I’m just going to get changed. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Sherlock agreed and tried to force himself not to watch her leave the room. He had brought a small bag with him and he quickly changed into the single pair of sleep pants he had in it and then brushed his teeth in the kitchen sink. He carefully got into the bed, not wanting to be standing around awkwardly when Jo came back out, and did his best to wait patiently. His heart was pounding with something akin to anticipation — a fact that he really hoped Jo wouldn’t notice. Nobody had ever been able to read him quite like Jo Watson, and while he was more than happy to see her again, he was worried that he had fallen out of practice when it came to hiding his emotions from her. It wouldn’t have been a problem with anyone else (even Mycroft rarely looked too closely at his emotional state) but with Jo, he felt like he was an open book.

Jo came out of the bathroom, turned off the lights, and got into bed — all without saying a word. They were laying side by side, both of them on their backs. The bed was big enough that there was enough room for them to lie comfortably without touching each other. Sherlock did his best to clear his mind, not wanting, for once, to consider all of Jo’s motives and reasoning behind doing this. He shifted just a little bit and their hands met; he heard Jo’s gasped intake of breath and held his own as Jo shifted as well, clasping their hands together.

***************

Jo woke up as early as she normally did. Sherlock was still sleeping, which didn’t surprise her since — whenever he deigned to actually sleep — he usually slept in late. At some point during the night they had both shifted, and now they were lying entwined in each other’s arms. It was the most comfortable she could ever remember being, and part of her never wanted to move. The other part of her knew that if Sherlock woke up and saw her like that, it would inevitably reveal more about her emotional state than she really wanted him to see, so after a few blissful minutes of weakness, she carefully extricated herself from the comfortable tangle of limbs and bedding. She quietly got dressed and grabbed her keys, deciding to clear her head by going out and getting them some breakfast. When she got back a little over an hour later, Sherlock was standing in the kitchen staring morosely at her coffee maker as he waited for it to finish percolating. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“Why don’t you have any food?” He asked, not even bothering to turn around. “You don’t even have milk for tea. I seem to remember the lack of milk being one of your biggest complaints about living with me.”

She shrugged as she started unloading her bags. “I didn’t really see the point of buying food that’s just going to spoil when I leave.”

“Leave? Leave for where?” He asked, sounding actually curious.

“Iraq,” She answered simply, not bothering to look up from what she was doing, so she was surprised when he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders.

“Iraq? Why are you going back to Iraq? Please tell me that you didn’t do something so incredibly stupid as rejoining the army! Last time you were in the army, you got shot!” He sounded genuinely panicked, which worried Jo.

She frowned, grabbing onto his arms. “I didn’t re-up, Sherlock; I’m going to help organize a clinic. I thought Mycroft was supposed to be giving you updates; this is my job.”

“Well apparently his communication skills need work,” he snapped. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself down before continuing. “So, what exactly is your job?”

She smiled. “I work for a battered women’s clinic. The organization just got funding to set up clinics internationally, so they hired me to be the project manager. This is the first one that I’ve entirely planned, so I’m going to be over there for longer than I will in the future.”

“How long will you be gone?” He asked, sitting down and claiming his share of the food.

“Two months,” she answered, sitting down as well. “I leave in three days.”

He nodded. “That sounds like a job that was made for you.”

“I thought so too,” she said with a smile. “And I’ll be safe; I promise.”

He returned her smile. “Good. I’m sure that you’ve taken every precaution.” She nodded and, with his prompting, proceeded to tell him more about the project as they ate. When the meal was finished they both fell silent.

“You’re not staying,” Jo said after a few minutes. She stared down at the tabletop, trying desperately not to show how disappointed she was.

He shook his head. “No, I have to leave tonight. Jo, I, left, to keep you safe. I can’t come back until I know that my presence alone won’t put you in danger. I still have work to do.”

“Do you know how long it’ll take?” She asked. “Until you’re done, I mean.”

He shrugged. “Three months, I think. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less.”

“Right,” she answered, nodding. After a pause she asked, “Why did you come back? If you’re not done, then why did you show up in my flat?”

He sighed. “It’s been a year Jo.”

“Fifteen months,” she replied. “It’s been more than a year. I could give you a more precise count if you want.”

He nodded. “Exactly. We only lived together for eighteen months. I didn’t want to be dead longer than you knew me. This was my last opportunity to tell you before I’m finished. And because I wanted to know if you would help me. I understand if you don’t want to, if you have your own life and better things to do…”

She cut him off. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. Of course I’ll help. What do you need me to do?”

“Let me show you,” he said, breaking into his typical I-have-a-case grin and going to pull a few files out of his bag.

“This is Sebastian Moran,” he said, opening the files in front of her. “He was Moriarty’s second in command, and has taken over the organization since his boss’ death. He’s an ex-military sniper, a very good one, but he’s not a leader on anywhere near the same level as Moriarty. The organization is falling apart, and he’s getting desperate. He’s well protected, though, and I’m saving him for last. That’s what I’ll need your help with. I’m still working on how, though. Until then, I need you to go about your life as normal. Don’t tell anyone that you’ve seen me.”

“Of course,” Jo agreed. “Anything you need.”

“You can keep those files,” he said stifling a yawn. “You’ll want to know as much about Moran as you can.”

She nodded. “Of course. And you need more sleep.” Sherlock looked like he was going to protest, but, after a moment, he just nodded.

“Alright, you get back to bed, and I’ll clean this up,” she said, smiling at him. Sherlock did as she asked, lying quietly as he listened to the comforting noises of Jo working in the kitchen. When she finished she went around closing the blinds, darkening the room.

He caught her wrist as she walked by. “Stay. Please.”

“Alright,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “Just give me a second.” He nodded and let her go, watching her go and pick up a book before coming back and settling herself on the mattress beside him, leaning her back against the wall.

A few minutes later he reached up and touched her half finished tattoo. “You got this for me, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered, not looking up from her book. “You’re one of the most important things that has ever happened to me; I thought that you deserved some sort of physical reminder.”

“I could do the same for you,” he said, letting his hand fall back down. “If you wanted me to.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Go to sleep, Sherlock. And I don’t need you to permanently scar your body for me; in fact, I’d much prefer it if you avoided getting any more scars at all.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised sleepily. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I've finally updated on Sunday again because I've finally remembered how to tell the days of the week (or I put a reminder on my phone and it buzzed accusingly at me). Anyway, I hope you like the chapter and reviews are always greeted with appropriate flailing and fangirling.

Jo couldn’t help but acknowledge how good it felt to be back on British soil after two months in Iraq. Mary had promised to pick her up at the airport, and she was eager to see her friend again. Customs was always tedious — but was especially so after spending such an extended time in a place like Iraq — and the baggage claim made her wish that she had carried her bag with her instead of checking it. But despite all of that, she was still able to greet her friend with a hug and a genuine smile. They shared a cab back to Mary’s flat and Jo couldn’t decide what she was looking forward to more: a hot shower, a decent meal, or a soft bed. Mary held her hand the entire trip, and Jo felt a twinge of regret knowing what she had to do that night.

When they finally got to the flat Jo went in to take a shower and Mary ordered them food — Indian this time. They ate on the couch, sipping surprisingly good wine — Mary had always refused to buy cheap wine, even when they were in Uni. When they finished Mary insisted on cleaning up herself, leaving Jo to doze on the sofa.

Mary woke her up with a kiss. After the brief moment it took for her to reorient herself, Jo relaxed under her friend’s caresses. She let her mind go blank, focusing only on what she was doing and the moment she was doing it in. They snogged lazily on the sofa for a long time. Jo would have been more than happy to stay like that for hours, but when Mary suggested that they move to the bedroom, Jo went without complaint, pulling Mary close and letting her strip her down to nothing. They tumbled into bed, pushing and pulling at each other in all the right ways. Jo was still exhausted, but her heart was pounding and she wouldn’t have stopped for the world.

When they finished, Jo rolled onto her back, wrapping her arms around Mary’s shoulders as the other woman rested her head on her chest. She stared up at the ceiling as her breathing and heart rate returned to normal and tried to think of how she was going to say what she knew she had to. She had been thinking about that for the entire two months she had been gone, and she wasn’t any closer to coming up with a good way to even start the conversation. Luckily, Mary started it for her.

“Alright what is it?” she asked, looking up at her friend even with her head still pillowed on her chest. “You seem shockingly tense for someone who’s supposed to be in the middle of post-coital bliss. I hope my skills haven’t been slipping.

Jo rolled her eyes. “Stop fishing for compliments, it’s below you; you know that you were, as usual, fantastic. There is something I have to talk to you about, though.”

“Go ahead,” Mary answered. “There’s no time like the present.

She took a deep breath and slowly let it out before speaking. “Mary, I’m sorry but I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Mary took a deep breath of her own. “Okay. Can I ask why? Have you found someone else?”

“Not exactly,” she answered with a sigh. “You know that I’ve been dating, but it’s just casual. I haven’t really found anyone that I want to even slightly commit to.”

She nodded. “So then what is it? I don’t understand. I thought we were having fun. At least, I was having fun.”

“I’ve been having fun too,” Jo assured her. “You’re one of my best friends: of course I love spending time with you. And god knows you’re amazing in bed, so I certainly don’t have any complaints there.

“I wish I could give you a better reason, I really do, but I just can’t right now. I need you to trust me. I promise that I’ll explain everything as soon as I can, but I can’t right now.”

Mary nodded again. “Okay, whatever you say. It’s not like this was anything other than something we did in our spare time. We’ll still hang out, though; right?”

“Of course,” Jo answered seriously. “I wouldn’t give up spending time with you for anything; even if we’re not shagging. You know that.”

“And one last cuddle couldn’t hurt,” She added, giving her friend a squeeze. “I mean, you don’t have to leave right now. You can wait ‘til morning, right?”

“One last cuddle would be perfect,” she agreed, squeezing Mary back.

Mary smiled. “Good.”

“Besides,” Jo joked, “your sheets are much nicer than mine. I’m really going to miss them.”

The brunette rolled her eyes. “I’ll have to tell them where I bought them; you can get your own.” Jo chuckled but let the conversation drop, content to get some much needed sleep.

A few minutes later Mary spoke again, her voice soft and cautious. “You seem much happier Jo. If you haven’t found someone new, then what gives. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled that you’re happy, but I don’t understand.”

Jo shrugged, hating that she had to lie. “I don’t know. I guess that spending two months in a country that has literally been ravaged by war just put things in perspective for me. I mean, I lost a really good friend, and that’s tragic. But life goes on; it’s not the end of the world. And when push comes to shove, there are a lot more awful things that could happen to someone.

“And besides, it’s not like my life is over. There are still things, really good things, that I can do with my life. This job is really important; I’m helping people that really need it. So like I said, I guess I just needed some perspective.” Mary just hummed, and Jo wished she could tell if that meant she believed her or not. She fell asleep before she could figure it out.

**************

Before he left Sherlock had promised that he would do his best to keep in touch with Jo through Mycroft; he wouldn’t be able to call her or give her too many details, but he’d try to let her know that he was okay every few weeks or so. She hadn’t really expected to get anything while she was in Iraq, but she was hoping to get something once she was back home. She tried to wait patiently, but week after week passed and there was still nothing. Soon, the three month mark that Sherlock had given her came and went and she had still heard nothing from either brother; she decided that she had done enough waiting and that it was time to be a little more proactive.

So she gave Mycroft a call, and then another and then another; when she realized that he was never going to answer her calls, she paid a visit to the Diogenes Club, where she knew he spent his Saturdays. She waited in the lobby all day with no word from him; she did that for three consecutive Saturdays before giving it up. She even tried going to the office she had met him in when she was trying to deal with the Bruce-Partington Plan fiasco, but she was told that he had moved locations and left no forwarding address. After that she gave up; she had run out of ideas and was smart enough to know that if a Holmes didn’t want to speak to you, then you weren’t going to have whatever conversation you wanted to have. She did her best to just go about her life as Sherlock had asked her to and not think about what the brothers’ silence might mean, but after two more months passed and Sherlock’s three months turned into five, she couldn’t help but wonder if something had gone horribly wrong.

She still spent a lot of time with Mary; although not quite as much as she used to. They still had dinner at least once a week and talked almost every day. Yet Jo still found herself pulling away again. She wanted desperately to talk to someone about what was happening and how it felt as if she had lost Sherlock all over again, but she had promised not to tell anyone about his reappearance, and so she suffered in silence. 


	7. Chapter 7

Jo was absolutely exhausted. It had been a little over five months since she had seen or heard from Sherlock, and it was all she could do not to obsess over all the horrific things that could have happened to him. She did her best to focus on other things: she was planning another clinic opening (this time in Georgia) and had taken to having dinner with Lestrade once a week to discuss his cases (he was currently trying to figure out how Ronald Adair, heir to his father’s business empire, had been murdered in his locked house in his room, which had also been locked from the inside). She was also working as many shifts at the clinic as she could manage in an attempt to stay busy enough to keep her mind off of Sherlock. But nothing really worked for long; she still ended up alone at night, unable to sleep and thinking of all the horrible ways he could have been killed.

She was walking to the nearest tube station after a late shift at the clinic had run even later due to a backlog of paperwork, stifling yawns and not really paying attention to where she was going when she ran straight into someone hard enough to make her shoulder ache. She stumbled backwards and had to catch herself on a lamppost in order to avoid falling. Once she had righted herself, she looked over and saw an elderly man sprawled on the ground surrounded by books he must have been carrying in his arms.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, lunging forward and dropping to her knees. “I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

The man practically growled at her. “I’m fine, no thanks to you. Now sod off.”

“Let me just help you with your things,” she insisted, grabbing for the books. “I really am sorry about all of this.”

He yanked the books out of her hands. “I don’t need your help; now piss off!” Something in the man’s voice made Jo pull back and after a few more stammered apologies she stumbled back into the darkness, moving towards the tube station as quickly as she possibly could without actually breaking into a run.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally got home and was able to put a locked door in between her and the rest of the world. She had yet to stop for dinner but she ignored her growling stomach, unsure if she wanted to spend the time and energy required to find food. She collapsed on the sofa she had acquired after breaking things off with Mary and was simultaneously thankful and disgruntled that she had made the executive decision not to keep any alcohol in the flat. She had finally decided to just go to bed and worry about her other bodily functions later when there was a persistent knock at her door. She sighed and got up, expecting to find either Lestrade or Mary, but was more than a little surprised to see the old man from earlier.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, firming her grip on the door.

He smiled disarmingly. “I wanted to apologize for how I treated you earlier. My behaviour was abominable.”

“It’s fine,” she answered tersely, hoping that this wouldn’t end with a call to Lestrade. “I knocked you over; I didn’t take it personally.”

He shuffled forward a bit. “Still, I would like to give you a token of my sincere apology: one of my books. I’m sure you can find one that you’re interested in if you let me show them to you. It will only take a minute, I promise.” She gave him a once over and was able to see that it wasn’t going to be easy to get rid of him.

“Fine,” she said warily. “I’ll just make us some tea. You can have a seat on the sofa.”

He thanked her, and she waited until she had seen him sit down before going into the kitchen, keeping an ear out for any sign trouble. Instead of making tea, she slowly opened the one of the drawers and thanked her lucky stars that she had decided to store her browning in the kitchen this week. Due to the sparse design of her flat, there was a direct line-of-sight from the kitchen to the main room, and so all she had to do was turn around and level the gun at her visitor. But instead of the creepy old man sitting on her couch, she saw Sherlock Holmes standing in her sitting room.

It was just as shocking as the first time it had happened, and her knees went wobbly. She tried to take a step towards him, but her foot got caught on a table leg and she fell, hitting her head on a kitchen chair on the way down. She lay there for a moment, trying to catch her breath. She was just about to start pushing herself up when she felt Sherlock’s hands on her arms, pulling her into a sitting position, carefully slipping the gun out of her grasp as he did.

“Christ Jo, I’m sorry,” he said, examining the cut on her head. “I had no idea you would be so… affected.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. You just startled me.”

“I can see that,” he answered. “I’ll just go get your med-kit. It’s in the bathroom, right?”

She nodded. “Yeah, but don’t worry about it Sherlock. I’m fine, really.” He ignored her and went and got the kit anyway; he knelt down in front of her and carefully cleaned the small cut on her forehead.

“How long have you been back in London?” She asked quietly as he placed a bandage on her head.

He shrugged. “Almost two weeks. I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner; Moran has been looking for me.”

“He’s in London too?” She asked, purposefully not looking at him.

He nodded. “Yes; although he’s not putting nearly as much energy into hiding as I am. You’ve even seen signs of him.”

“Really? Where?” She asked, still not looking at him.

“Ronald Adair,” he answered. “Moran’s a gambler, and he cheats. Adair caught him, so Moran killed him. It would be boring, really, if it wasn’t for what he killed him with. I told you that Moran is a sniper: well, he’s built himself an untraceable, air-powered dart—rifle. He shot Adair through his open window. It was a good shot, but other than that, rather dull; he doesn’t have Moriarty’s creativity, or flair for the dramatic.”

Jo snorted. “Let’s be thankful for small mercies. I’ll take a run of the mill psychopath any day; I don’t think I have the energy to deal with another Moriarty right now.”

“You have a point,” he said, smiling. “Anyway, we should have this whole thing cleared up within a week, and then things can finally get back to normal.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sherlock, life with you is never normal, or predictable. Now, have you eaten dinner yet? Because I’m starving.”

“No, I haven’t eaten yet,” he answered, still smiling. “I’ve been a bit busy.”

She nodded, standing up. “Alright then. I’ll just make us some supper.” He agreed and moved to sit in one of the chairs, watching as she started to pull out the ingredients for a quick stir fry. She moved quickly and efficiently, focusing all of her attention on what she was doing. He took in the tense line of her shoulder and the way that she was almost imperceptibly favoring her right leg and was easily able to deduce that she was upset, probably angry. He had learned early on in their friendship that when it came to Jo Watson, it was by far easier, and more productive, to simply ask what was bothering her and then try and fix it, rather than try and figure out what was wrong on his own. He had also learned that she was more than willing to talk about it if someone else had done something to make her angry, but that she tended to keep it to herself when he was the one who had upset her.

“Are you angry with me?” He asked, deciding to cut right to the chase.

Jo froze, tensing even more. “Drop it, Sherlock. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does,” he counted, his heart rate increasing. “Why are you angry with me?”

She shook her head, still not moving. “I don’t want to talk about this. I’ll get over it.”

“Is it because I scared you?” He asked, quickly running through their interactions that day. “Or because I yelled at you earlier? I’m sorry about that, but I wasn’t sure if I was being followed or not, and I didn’t want to put you in danger.”

She sighed. “I’m not angry about that; I get it. Just drop this; I’ll be fine.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to drop it; I want to make it better! I don’t understand what I could have done to piss you off already!”

“You disappeared for five months Sherlock,” she snapped, finally turning around to face him. “I thought you were dead! You can’t keep doing this to me; I don’t know how many times I can mourn for you before it breaks me.”

Sherlock looked at her blankly for a few seconds before slowly asking, “What do you mean ‘disappeared?’ I know that I wasn’t able to give you many details or write as often as I had wanted to, but I did try to send enough letters so that you wouldn’t worry about me too much.”

“I didn’t get any letters,” she answered, her voice quiet. “I didn’t get anything.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand. I gave them to Mycroft; I made him promise that he would get them to you.”

“Mycroft wouldn’t even answer my calls,” she said softly. “I tried everything I could think of — I spent hours at the Diogenes Club — but he wouldn’t talk to me. Why wouldn’t he give me your letters?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Why does Mycroft do anything?” After a momentary pause, he added, “I did try, Jo, and I’m sorry that you were worried; that’s not what I wanted for you.”

“It’s alright,” she said, smiling at him. “It’s not your fault. You did your best to keep me in the loop, and I can’t be angry with you because of what your brother did. And you’re not actually dead, so there’s no harm done.” She turned back around and continued making their dinner.

Once they had sat down with their meal, Jo spoke up again, asking, “So what’s the plan? You said that this whole thing would be over within a week.”

“Yes; Moran knows I’m here, so all I have to do is draw him out, which is what I need you for,” he said, giving her a smile.

Jo frowned slightly, trying to understand. “So I’m what? Bait?”

Sherlock paled, shaking his head. “No! That is definitely not the plan!” He took a deep breath and continued. “What I need you is to publicly investigate Adair’s death: visit the crime-scene, talk to his friends and acquaintances, anything you think Lestrade will let you get away with. I know that Moran did it, but you’re presence on the case will make him nervous. That’s the easy part; it’s what comes next that’s tricky.

“I’ve already spoken with Mrs. Hudson, and she’s agreed to go visit her sister, for safety’s sake; she’s also given me your set of keys to Baker Street, which you’ll be needing. And I have blueprints, which we’ll need; they’re in one of those stupid books.”

He moved to get up but she grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Eat your dinner first. There will be plenty of time for scheming after.” He agreed and relaxed into his seat again.

“I’ve missed your cooking,” he said after a few minutes, smiling across the table at his friend.

Jo rolled her eyes. “Yeah right. You hardly ever eat my cooking unless it’s three in the morning and you’ve finished experimenting or thinking or whatever it is that you do, and realize that there’s nothing to eat in the flat except my cooking.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it,” he answered, still smiling. “And I’ve found that I miss most things about you. I’ve even found myself becoming oddly nostalgic at the lack of ridiculous underthings hanging from the shower curtain rod.”

She laughed. “I’m allowed to dry my bras in my own bathroom. And if we’re talking about strange bouts of nostalgia, then I think I have you beat; I’ve fond myself missing the fact that my kitchen is no longer a science lab.”

“Really?” He asked, looking a bit too mischievous for comfort. “Does that mean that you won’t complain when I start my experiments back up?”

She shook her head, still laughing. “No such luck; I’ve missed arguing about them far too much for that.” Sherlock just smiled fondly, not really knowing what else to say, but happy that she hadn’t contradicted his assumption that they would soon be sharing a kitchen again. 


	8. Chapter 8

Jo’s heart was pounding as she let herself into 221 Baker Street, carefully locking the door behind her. It was just after midnight and unnervingly quiet for a place she usually associated with noise of some sort, whether it was Mrs. Hudson puttering around her flat, Sherlock’s experiments, or hauntingly beautiful violin playing. She quickly went through Sherlock’s plan in her head again, just to make sure that she knew what to do because once she got upstairs there could be no hesitation. She took one last deep breath before quickly climbing the stairs and entering what still felt a bit like home. Even though she had thought she had been prepared, she still stopped short at the sight. She hadn’t been back to the flat since moving all of her things into a storage unit right after Sherlock’s funeral, so she was more than a little shocked to see that everything was exactly as it had been, up to and including the skull on the mantle next to the knifed down letters and the violin case leaning up against the wall. It took her breath away, but she quickly recovered and went about doing as Sherlock had instructed.

There was a (rather creepy, in Jo’s opinion) Sherlock-mannequin sitting in Sherlock’s chair, and the first thing that Jo had to do was turn it on. She followed the (annoyingly detailed) instructions Sherlock had given her, smirking just a bit when she got it right on the first try despite the cracks the detective had made about her lack of technical abilities. She arranged the lighting as Sherlock had told her to (the whole set up was designed to throw “Sherlock’s” shadow into relief once the curtains were open). She took a moment to breathe deeply and hope that Sherlock was right about Moran having no interest in shooting her (which really was shortsighted on his part because she had a vested interest in shooting the bastard as many times as she possibly could). She carefully opened the curtains, revealing the pull-down shade that Sherlock had had installed for the occasion; she then pushed the shade aside and looked out, scanning the street for a few moments before letting it fall back into place. She went and sat in what had been her chair, pretending to talk to “Sherlock” for a few minutes before getting up and climbing the stairs to what had been her room. She sat on the edge of the bed closed her eyes, stamping down all of the emotions that were trying to flood her. They would just get in the way, and she had more important things to worry about than why the flat still looked and smelled the same and whether or not that made moving back in a good idea or not (because of course she knew that he was going to ask, and if he asked there’s nothing she’d be able to do to stop herself from saying yes).

She waited the prescribed twenty minutes before carefully sneaking out of flat the way Sherlock had told her to, wishing the entire time that she had more experience with this than just looking at blueprints. She took a circuitous walk that lasted about ten minutes and landed her behind the house directly across from their flat, which she again snuck into via a route she had only seen on a blueprint. She walked silently through the house, unsure of whether or not Moran was already there, and made her way carefully to the room Sherlock had told her to meet him. She slipped inside the door and stopped, barely daring to breathe as squinted into the shadows in an attempt to make sure that the lump she saw by the window was, in fact, her partner in crime and not a psychopathic sniper. When she was reasonably sure that it was who it was supposed to be, she whispered his name and repressed a smile at the way he jumped.

“You startled me,” he whispered, waiving her over to the chair next to him. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

She sat down gratefully, rolling her eyes. “That was rather the point. Is Moran here yet?”

“Probably,” he answered with a shrug. “I haven’t seen or heard any sign from him, but he was probably here before I was. I’m willing to bet that he’s in the room above us.” She hummed lightly and fell silent, focusing her attention on the shadow in the window across the street and wondering what exactly it was about faking his death that had made Sherlock more honest.

Sherlock gave up on focusing on the stakeout about five minutes after Jo sat down; Jo was better than him at stakeouts anyway; she had the patience of a soldier and a remarkable attention to detail as long as someone told her what to look for. He kept stealing glances at her out of the corner of his eye, but he eventually gave up and allowed himself to stare since she wasn’t paying any attention to him. She was breathing so quietly that he could barely hear her, but it was as slow and even as if she was just having a quiet night in instead of staking out the site of her best friend’s murder with her supposedly dead best friend. He had no way of gaging her heartbeat without cluing her in to what he was doing, but he couldn’t help wondering whether her heart was pounding with adrenaline or if she had forced it steady so she could shoot between beats like a sniper; in fact, he wondered if she could manage to shoot between her heart beats. He’s never even tried to do it himself — though he’s fairly certain he couldn’t manage it — but he’s never really been sure just what sort of military training she’s had. Mycroft had offered to show him her files, he’d even brought them with him as proof of his sincerity, but Sherlock had steadfastly refused to touch them; Jo never talked about her time in the military, and finding out about it from any other source seemed like a betrayal. After fifteen minutes of sitting in silence, speaking somehow felt like a necessity (and Sherlock wondered when that had happened because it certainly had never been the case before).

“Could you make this shot?” He asked quietly, nodding towards the window.

She smiled, not taking her eyes off her target. “In the room above us with a rifle? Definitely. Maybe even with my Browning.”

“And what about from here?” He questioned, breaking into a grin at her confidence.

She shrugged. “It would be difficult, but I think I could with a rifle. I wouldn’t like to try it with my handgun, though.” He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say to that, but he didn’t get the chance to find out because just then there was the sound of shattering glass and the Sherlock-mannequin’s shadow disappeared from the window.

The pair jumped up as quietly as they could, and Sherlock led the way upstairs, reveling in the feeling of Jo’s steady presence at his back. They found Moran packing up his rifle, and Sherlock took advantage of the moment and lunged forward. Jo quickly joined the fray, hoping to get a clear shot, but Moran knocked the Browning out of her hand and across the room early on. Even so, it was two against one and Sherlock and Jo worked well together, even though it had been almost two years since they last fought side by side. They subdued the sniper and Sherlock secured him with zip-ties from his coat. Jo didn’t bother even looking for the light switch; there was enough light coming in from the open window for her to see Sherlock’s grin, and that was more than enough for her. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed Lestrade’s number by memory, practically giddy that she got to do this again.

Sherlock moved back into the shadows when they heard Lestrade enter the house; Jo rolled her eyes and told him that his flair for the dramatic was going to give the DI a heart attack. Even so, she didn’t point out the man lurking in the corner, and carefully explained how and why Moran had killed Ronald Adair. She then told him about Moran’s connection to Moriarty and about how he had been caught.

Lestrade nodded, still looking a bit lost. “So I’m arresting him for the murder of Ronald Adair.”

“Yes,” she agreed happily. “And for the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes.”

Lestrade froze. “Jo, I can’t arrest someone for trying to kill someone who’s already dead.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not dead then,” Sherlock announced smugly, stepping out of the shadows. “Not even on paper as of three weeks ago.”

“What the holy hell?!?” Lestrade yelled, almost losing his grip on Moran. “You seriously faked your own death? Are you fucking kidding me, Holmes?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “Sorry. It was a necessary evil.”

He shook his head, sighing deeply. “I’d deck you, but my hands are a bit full at the moment. I’m glad you’re back though.”

“Me too,” he answered quietly, looking pleased.

They shared a look before Lestrade shook his head and slipped back into professionalism. “Right. I’ll need you two to come down tomorrow morning and give your statements. Don’t forget. And we’ll have to go out to dinner sometime; to celebrate.”

“Sounds good,” Jo answered with a smile. “And I’ll make sure we make it down tomorrow.” Greg nodded and then led Moran away. There were still plenty of police officers around, going through the evidence in both the vacant house and their sitting room.

Jo bit back a yawn. “Christ I’m tired. I’d forgotten how exhausting this is.”

“Do you want to go back to your flat? I can call you a cab,” Sherlock answered helpfully.

She shook her head. “It’s a bit late for that, and I don’t really trust cabbies anymore. Unless you want the flat to yourself.”

“No,” he answered quickly. “I mean, I’ve had a bit too much time to myself lately.”

She smiled at him. “Alright. Do you want to go see if we can find some tea in the kitchen and wait for the police to get out of our flat?”

“That sounds good to me,” he answered happily. “Let’s go home.” She couldn’t help but grin as she followed him out.

**************

It was three in the morning by the time they had the flat to themselves. The sitting room was a disaster and it was far too late for them to even consider trying to clean it up, so they were in the kitchen, drinking the tea that they had miraculously been able to find.

After a few minutes of silence Jo shook her head, looking around the cluttered flat. “It looks exactly the same. Why does it look the same?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock answered simply. “He paid Mrs. Hudson to leave it. He told her that it was sentiment, but I’m pretty sure that she guessed the real reason; she didn’t look all that surprised to see me.” Jo just nodded, too tired to come up with something else to say.

After a beat or two Sherlock finally got up the courage to ask, “So will you move back? To Baker Street, I mean.”

“Of course,” Jo answered, her heart pounding even though she didn’t have to think about her answer. “Where else would I go? I only ever left because I didn’t have any other choice.”

Sherlock grinned. “Good. That’s… very good. I’ll help you move.”

“You better,” she answered, grinning as well before it was cut off by a yawn. “Okay, I’m really going to bed now. I’ll see you in the morning. Or maybe the afternoon.”

He chuckled. “Goodnight; I’m going to stay up for a bit. Do you mind if I play? It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance.”

“I’d like that,” she answered quietly. “I’ve missed your violin.” He nodded, looking fond as well but not saying anything else, and got up to retrieve his instrument.

Jo went upstairs, silently thanking Mrs. Hudson for keeping bedding on her bed. She stripped as quickly as she could before collapsing on the mattress, barely mustering up the energy required to pull the duvet over her shoulders. She didn’t sleep though, despite how utterly exhausted she felt; instead, she listened to Sherlock play his violin until she literally couldn’t anymore. 


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock closed the third (and hopefully final) box marked ‘Kitchen’ and struggled with the packing tape until it was finally sealed properly. He sighed, leaning back against the counter, and hoped that they were done with this whole “packing” thing; for a woman with so few personal belongings, Jo was remarkably particular about how they went into boxes. He still smiled, though, when she came out of the bathroom with what he was pretty sure was the last box.

“Is that it?” He asked, unable to keep the obvious hopefulness out of his voice. “I can call the cab?”

Jo nodded, grinning. “That’s it. Call away.” Sherlock had just got his phone out of his pocket when Jo spoke up again, her tone frantic. “Wait! I can’t leave yet.”

Sherlock froze. “What do you mean you can’t leave? What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong, I promise. And we can go in a few minutes. There’s just something I have to say to you first.”

“Alright,” he said, Jo’s assurances calming him down almost immediately. “What is it? You know you can tell me anything; you don’t have to look like you’re about to go into battle or something.”

Jo took a deep breath, not even bothering to attempt a smile at what was really a rather lame joke. “So after you — jumped — I realized that I had a lot of regrets about the time we spent together. But what I regretted most of all was that there were things that I never said to you: things that I probably, definitely, should have said. But I was too much of a coward to say them because I was afraid of losing you. But I’ve already lost you, and so what the hell. I wanted to do it now, before we got back to our real lives. Because at least if it goes as horribly wrong as I think it probably will, we can just leave it here.” She paused, taking another deep breath before continuing. “Sherlock, I’m in love with you.” She stopped talking, breathing heavily, and waited for Sherlock to say something, anything. When it became clear that the man was well and truly speechless, she couldn’t hold back the tide of panicked words that came flooding out.

“Look, it’s not as if this has to change anything. I’ve been in love with you for ages, and it has never interfered with our friendship or anything. It’s just that I couldn’t risk something happening to you without you knowing exactly what you mean to me. And it’s not like I expect you to return the feeling or do anything about it; I just wanted…” Sherlock cut her off with a kiss, unable to think of what else to do. She had been in the middle of saying something ridiculous — everything after ‘I love you’ was a bit of a blur — so it was messy and sloppy and uncoordinated and a little bit painful, but that was absolutely perfect because it was Jo. She was kissing him back, her hands gripping his shoulders so tightly that it hurt, and he couldn’t imagine anything better than that. He didn’t break off the kiss until his lungs were screaming for air, and even then he only pulled back a few inches, his hands still cradling his friend’s face.

“I-I, you too. I love you too,” he said breathlessly, stumbling helplessly over the words as his heart constricted painfully. “Is it supposed to feel like this? Because I think I might be suffering from a previously undiagnosed heart condition.

Jo laughed, her blue eyes practically dancing. “Yeah, it’s supposed to feel like that.”

He nodded, not knowing what else to say, and kissed her again. This time it was even better because she had seen it coming and was able to coordinate her movements with his. She moved her hands to his hair, and he slipped one arm around her waist in order to pull her even closer. Suddenly standing up wasn’t anywhere near a good idea and they weren’t anywhere close to being close enough, and he was being sarcastic the first time he said it, but christ, breathing really was boring because this was so much better even when his lungs were screaming for air. He began moving, pushing Jo towards the bed and hoping that they got there before his knees gave out, which was rapidly becoming a legitimate worry somewhere in the back of his mind. Thankfully, the flat wasn’t that big, and it didn’t take very long at all before the back of Jo’s legs were hitting the mattress. She laid back willingly, shuffling backwards until she her legs were no longer hanging off the edge and pulling him down on top of her. And this, this was so much better than before, even if there wasn’t nearly enough skin involved. He moved down to kiss at Jo’s neck, loving the gasping sounds that that drew out of her, and slipped his hand under her shirt, spreading his fingers out over as much of her stomach as possible. With his free hand he reached down to undo her trousers, fumbling as he tried to kiss her at the same time.

He had just got the button undone when she pulled away, pushing lightly at his shoulders. “Wait, wait. We need to stop.”

“What? Why?” He asked, sitting back a bit so that he could look at her while he attempted some semblance of intelligent conversation. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t want to do this here. I want to go home.” Sherlock nodded, remembering what she had said about separating her confession from their real life.

“Alright,” he agreed, taking deep, gulping breaths. “I’ll call a cab; just give me a minute.” She nodded as he rolled to the side to lay beside her; he couldn’t help but grin even as he attempted to get rid of his erection by sheer force of will.

*********

The cab ride to Baker Street was ridiculously awkward. Sherlock and Jo sat on opposite sides of the car in absolute silence, carefully not getting anywhere close to touching. The kept looking, though, and blushing when they got caught. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he actually blushed, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Jo just smiled and bit her lip to avoid telling her friend just how adorable he looked when his cheeks were flushed.

Once they reached their destination, it didn’t take them long to move Jo’s few boxes up to their flat, and soon they were standing awkwardly in the sitting room, looking anywhere but at each other. Jo’s heart was pounding in her chest. Everything seemed so much more complicated now that they were home, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Sherlock’s hesitation meant that he was going to take it all back. When she had started her confession, she had been completely willing to keep things the way that they were, but now that she had been offered a taste of what could be, she wasn’t sure that could ignore how she felt. She was just about to ask where they were supposed to go from here when Sherlock reached over and hooked one of his impossibly long arms around her waist, pulling her close against him.

They ended up in Sherlock’s bedroom, which somehow seemed natural. This time, it was Sherlock who was pressed against the mattress as Jo kissed him feverishly and attacked the buttons on his ridiculously tight dress shirt. He huffed out a breath of laughter at the triumphant noise she made when she finally got them all undone. She leaned back, resting her weight against his thighs as she pushed his shirt off his shoulders before pulling her own top over her head as well. Suddenly, the urgency faded and they just stared at each other. Sherlock reached up and reverently ran his fingers over her tattoos. Jo reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, pulling it off unselfconsciously.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, unable to keep the words back.

She flushed and ducked her head in an unexpected bout of shyness. “You’re biased.”

“Probably,” he answered with a shrug. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I think you’re gorgeous.”

Jo smiled, still blushing. “You’re pretty good looking yourself.”

This time it was Sherlock’s cheeks that colored, but he was thankfully saved from having to come up with an answer by Jo leaning down to kiss him again. Within minutes they were both back to fumbling with the other’s clothing, their arms getting tangled and their hands getting distracted by the expanse of skin available above the waist. The finally were able to shimmy out of their trousers, though, breaking down into giggles at the ridiculousness of trying to undress without separating. Once they were down to just their pants, Sherlock flipped them over, pressing her down into the mattress and luxuriating in the feel of her skin against his. He slipped his fingers under the elastic of her underwear and Jo moaned, tilting her head back and squeezing her eyes shut.

A few minutes later she looked up at him again and pulled him into another kiss before asking, “Do you have condoms?” It took him an embarrassingly long time to process what she was saying, but eventually he nodded and leaned over to rifle through the drawers of his bedside table. He was sure that he had bought a box at some point, but it wasn’t there and his searching was just starting to get really frantic when Jo stopped him with a comforting hand on his arm.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I have some. I’ll be right back.” She gave him one last kiss before slipping out of the bed and out of his room.

Sherlock took deep, heaving breaths as he listened to her move around the flat. Eventually, he felt a bit more level headed and sat up, removing his boxer shorts and sitting on the edge of the bed. Jo came back holding a slightly crumpled box and grinning. She tossed it to him before wriggling out of her own pants and coming to stand between his legs. Sherlock reached up and cupped his hands around her hips and grinned, his pulse pounding in his throat as she leaned down to kiss him again.

***********

Sherlock carefully ran his fingers over the scar on Jo’s shoulder, keeping his touch light in order to avoid waking his friend. He felt content and slightly sleepy, happy to stay exactly exactly as he was for the foreseeable future. He knew that he should feel at least a little disgusted at the feeling of so many mixed bodily fluids dried on his skin, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything beyond the warm glow of happiness emanating from somewhere in the center of his chest. He rested his head on Jo’s pillow and pressed his nose against the nape of her neck, breathing deeply in a way that he really hoped wasn’t creepy. He had the sudden realization that he would be perfectly happy to lie like this every day for the rest of his life.

Jo shifted, turning over in his arms and smiling sleepily up at him. “What time is it?”

“Half four,” he replied quietly, not really wanting to disturb the pleasant stillness that surrounded them like a cocoon.

She sighed. “We should get up. We have to meet everybody at Angelo’s at six, and we both need to shower before we leave.”

“Fine,” he answered, scrunching up his nose to show his displeasure. “But Angelo is going to smother me, and I’m still not convinced that Lestrade isn’t going to deck me; he still wants to, you know.”

She pulled him into a quick kiss that ran a bit long. “Don’t worry, I’ve got lots of practice keeping people from punching you, and you have far too pretty a face for me to let someone ruin it on my watch.” He blushed again and leaned in for another kiss in order to hide it, wondering when he would stop being so affected by Jo saying things like that. A surprisingly large part of him hoped that he never really got used to it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I'd love a comment or you could drop by [My Tumblr](http://theravensdesk.tumblr.com) if that's more your style. 
> 
> Have a good week!


	10. Chapter 10

For once, Jo woke up before Sherlock did. She had only been back at Baker street for about a week, and they were still trying to fit back into some sort of pattern. She had been working, albeit with a slightly less ridiculous schedule, but Sherlock hadn’t been working on anything beyond a few mild experiments in the kitchen. Before, this would have filled her with dread, or a sense of vague foreboding at the very least, but now Sherlock actually seemed content to stay around the house, playing his violin or reading or watching crap telly with Mrs. Hudson. And Jo knew that things would never really be the same as before, and not just because there were almost two years of pain and loneliness separating them. Now, they ate dinner with their feet tangled together underneath the table, and when they watched telly or spent the night reading, Sherlock leaned his head on her shoulder and occupied himself by playing with her fingers instead of fidgeting. Jo wasn’t really sure how long this calm was going to last, or even if she really wanted it to last at all, but she was determined to enjoy it while she could.

Sherlock had asked her to keep their relationship a secret. She really didn’t mind — especially when she saw how genuinely shy the man was about even the simplest signs of affection — and the people who really mattered were going to know anyway: Mrs. Hudson had walked in on them cuddling on the couch, but she wasn’t entirely convinced that it was a new development; Mary didn’t know, but she would as soon as she saw the two of them together; Jo had yet to hear from Mycroft, but she was sure that his creepy pseudo-omniscience would extend into Sherlock’s personal life; Molly had given them knowing looks all through Sherlock’s ‘Welcome Home’ dinner, making Jo wonder just how much Sherlock had shared with her during the time they spent together directly following his faked suicide; and despite all allegations to the contrary, Lestrade was a good detective — he would figure it out. And Jo really couldn’t complain when she woke up every morning to the sight of Sherlock watching her with such a look of fixed adoration that it took her breath away.

This was the first time that she had woken up before Sherlock, and as much as she wanted to take advantage of the situation, she really had to pee. Not bothering to try and find something to wear in the jumble of clothes they had left on the floor the night before, she grabbed the sheet from where it had been separated from the rest of the bedding during the night. She carefully made her way out of Sherlock’s room and up the stairs, remembering to skip the ones that creaked. After using the toilet and cleaning her teeth, she decided that she was in the mood for coffee and headed down to the kitchen, debating whether she should cook or try and convince Sherlock to go out for breakfast when he woke up. Her plans for the morning were derailed, however, when she saw Mycroft Holmes sitting in his brother’s chair as she passed through the sitting room to get to the kitchen.

“Good morning Doctor Watson,” he said imperiously, not looking even slightly disturbed at her less-than-fully-dressed appearance. “You’re looking very comfortable this morning.” Jo felt a sudden surge of anger at the man sitting in her flat; how dare he ignore her for some unknown reason, keep things from her that rightly belonged to her, and then show up in her flat, unannounced, and judge how she chose to dress when no one else was supposed to be looking? She quickly tamped down the emotion, though, knowing from experience just how futile it was in the face of the elder Holmes.

She rolled her eyes and retreated to the safe-ground of sarcasm. “Do you actually know how a telephone works? Because I’m sincerely beginning to doubt that you even understand the concept.”

“Is my brother aware of the full extent of your relationship with Miss Morstan?” Mycroft asked, ignoring her question in favor of his own agenda for their conversation

Jo narrowed her eyes. “My relationship with Ms. Morstan is none of your business. Neither is my relationship with your brother, for that matter.”

“Your relationship with my brother is very much my business,” he answered, his tone gaining a dangerous edge. “Which is why your relationship with Mary Morstan is so concerning; you’ve never really cared much for monogamy, have you Doctor Watson?” She glared at him but was saved from having to answer by the sounds of Sherlock moving around in his room.

“Sherlock, your brother is here,” she called in warning, wondering if that was more or less of an incentive for him to actually put clothing on before coming out into the rest of the flat — not that she really cared either way.

Sherlock came out wrapped in his signature blue silk dressing gown. “I would have thought that breaking and entering was below you, Mycroft.”

“And I would have thought that such base desire was below you, brother,” Mycroft answered smugly. “Such obvious sentimentality is not a strength.”

“I’m going to go make coffee,” Jo announced, seeing no other alternative to punching Mycroft in the nose; she just hoped that whatever damage Mycroft managed to inflict during his visit would not be permanent. She listened to the sound of their voices, and even though she couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, she could tell that Sherlock was getting very agitated, very quickly. Mycroft left just as the coffee finished brewing; although Jo wouldn’t have made him a cup even if he had stayed.

Jo walked out into the sitting room and found Sherlock sitting in his chair with his knees drawn up to his chest. She set both of their mugs down on the desk and perched on the arm of his chairs, running her fingers lightly through his tangled curls. She didn’t say anything, knowing that it wouldn’t do any good when he was like this, and simply waited patiently until his breathing had slowed down to a normal pace. When it had, she placed a gentle kiss on his forehead and let her hand slide down to the back of his neck, her fingers playing with the curls there.

“What did Mycroft want?” She asked once she was sure her partner had calmed down enough to be able to discuss his brother’s visit.

He shrugged, moving his hand to grip tightly at her sheet. “He just wanted to reiterate just how dangerous a weakness sentiment really is, and that it’s already been proven that you’re a liability. He thinks that I should make a clean break now, before I get “overly invested” in this relationship; he even brought real estate advertisements. He doesn’t think that you’re committed to this; he thinks you’ll leave.”

“Hey,” she said, using her free hand to tilt his face up so that he was looking at her. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m definitely committed to this. And I can’t argue with me being a liability, but sentiment does not have to be a weakness. There’s another way, and I’ll show you how it works if you’ll let me.”

He nodded, still holding on to her sheet so tightly his knuckles were white. “Alright. And you’re not just a liability; I’m safer with you around. I’m happier. So Mycroft can just go to hell.”

“Okay then,” she answered, grinning down at him. “Now, I was thinking that we could go out to breakfast, but I’ve changed my mind since we’re meeting Mary for dinner. So what do you want me to make?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, a little thrown by the sudden change in topic, before answering. “French toast.”

“As you wish,” she answered happily. “Just let me get dressed, and then I’ll get started.”

He didn’t loosen his grip. “You don’t have to get changed.”

“You want me to cook in a sheet?” She asked incredulously, raising her eyebrows.

He shrugged, suddenly feeling shy and ridiculous (emotions that had become frighteningly common since he and Jo had entered this new phase of their relationship). “It looks good on you.”

“It does, doesn’t it,” she answered with mock seriousness. “But I will have to get dressed eventually; we’re going to have dinner with Mary, and I don’t think Angelo would appreciate it if this is what I wore.”

He looked at her appraisingly. “I don’t know; I can’t imagine that there are very many people who wouldn’t appreciate you in a sheet. It’s a very good look for you.” Jo just laughed as she got up and grabbed her coffee before going into the kitchen to get breakfast started.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock was surprisingly nervous about meeting Mary. She was one of the few people from Jo’s past that his friend really cared about; other than Mary, the only other person she had even mentioned was her paternal grandfather, and Sherlock wasn’t even sure if he was still living or not. Jo looked a little nervous as well, but he was fairly certain that that was just because she wanted them to get along. They had decided to walk to Angelo’s because it wasn’t that far and they were both feeling a bit restless. Jo led them to a tall brunette in a dress that was just a little bit too short, her small smile breaking into a grin.

“Have you been waiting long?” Jo asked after hugging her friend.

Mary shook her head. “No, I’ve only been here a few minutes; although, I’m expecting a call from the shop, so I’ll have to duck out for a few minutes. Sorry.”

“No problem,” she answered happily, grabbing hold of Sherlock’s arm and pulling him forward. “Mary, I want you to meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Mary Morstan.”

They shook hands and Mary looked him up and down before grinning. “She could have done much worse. You’re very pretty.” Sherlock blushed and spluttered, not really sure what he was supposed to say to that.

Jo rolled her eyes, somehow managing to look stern and fond at the same time (an expression that Sherlock was more than familiar with; although usually it was directed at him). “Don’t be awful Mary; you promised to be nice. And we don’t want anyone to know, so you have to keep this to yourself.”

“Oh, of course,” she answered, looking chastened. “Mum’s the word. You can count on me.”

She smiled brightly. “We should go inside before Angelo gives the good table away.”

“I called him earlier to make a reservation,” Sherlock said, feeling as if he should contribute something to the conversation. “And I’m fairly certain that he would give us any table we asked for at this point.”

Jo gave him that same stern/fond look as they stepped inside. “True, but that would be taking advantage, which is a bit not good.” Sherlock’s heart stuttered; it had been ages since he had heard those words, and the knowledge that Jo was still willing to act like it was completely normal for someone’s moral compass to be another person released a ball of tension that he hadn’t known he was carrying until it was gone.

Dinner was much the same as it always was, except that now there were three of them in a booth, so Sherlock and Jo were sitting just a bit too close together on the bench. Sherlock spent most of his time watching the two women interact. He had known that they had been friends since they were young, Jo had told him that much, but he hadn’t quite managed to anticipate just what that meant. They finished each other’s sentences and moved seamlessly from one story to another, sometimes even mirroring the other’s posture and mannerisms. He was able to recognize which phrases and speech patterns they had traded and wondered which ones dated back to the beginning of their friendship. It was simultaneously fascinating and frustrating because, while there was a lot about their relationship that he was able to deduce, there was more that he was completely unable to see.

When Mary excused herself about twenty minutes into dinner to answer her phone, Jo turned to Sherlock with a hesitant smile. “We’re not excluding you, are we? You’ve been very quiet.”

“Why didn’t things work out between you two?” He asked, ignoring her question. “You two seem very compatible; I can’t imagine the sexual component was unsatisfactory.”

Jo sighed. “For the record, I was going to tell you about my relationship with Mary; I just wanted to wait until you had met her so that you would have the necessary context.”

“Okay,” he answered since she looked like she needed the reassurance that he believed her; he didn’t say anything else though, waiting for her to answer his question.

She sighed again, shaking her head. “We just wanted different things. We were always friends first, and we started sleeping together while we were in uni because we were young and bored and we needed stress relief that you didn’t have to smoke. Mary’s not the monogamous type, and I’ve always been far too good at compartmentalization. We’d break it off if I found someone I wanted to date seriously, but it never hurt our friendship. We continued on and off until she moved back to the States during my last tour. She came back to London about six months after I met you, but we didn’t start shagging again until after you jumped. I broke it off when I found out you were alive because I knew that I wanted to give this a try and I couldn’t do it if I was still sleeping with her.”

“Okay,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I was just wondering; I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

Jo grinned, looking incredibly relieved. “Good. It’s just that there aren’t many people who are willing to even try and understand this; I know that it’s unconventional at best.”

“A lot of what we do is unconventional at best,” he replied fondly. “I don’t expect your past to be anything else.”

The rest of the meal went far better than Sherlock had expected it to. He made it a point to engage in the conversation more: partly because he knew that it would make Jo happy, but mostly because he found Mary to be interesting (although why he expected Jo’s best friend to be anything other than interesting was a mystery even to him). He had always found tattoos to be fascinating and finding a conversational partner who was knowledgeable on the subject was a treat, and that was besides the obvious overlap of interest that came from her career as a barrister. Jo held her own in the conversation, of course, but she did pull back a bit, letting them get to know each other. Sherlock kept stealing glances at his partner (Life-mate? Other-half? He really needed to discus titles with her at some point) and found her looking completely content. They were in the middle of dessert when Jo excused herself to used the bathroom, leaving Mary and Sherlock by themselves.

“I’m not a threat to you, you know,” Mary said, breaking the silence that had fallen as soon as Jo had left.

Sherlock blinked at her. “Excuse me.”

“If you’re half as brilliant as Jo says you are, then you’ve already figured out that Jo and I used to shag,” she answered pleasantly. “And I’m telling you that I’m not a threat to you.

“I’ve never been a til death do us part kind of girl, and Jo’s fun in bed, but she’s always wanted someone to commit to. I want her to be happy, so I’m not going to sabotage her shot at monogamy. And Jo’s always been able to make a clean break, so don’t be weird about this because there’s no need for you to worry.”

He nodded, a bit taken aback at her blunt honesty. “Thank you, I suppose. I wasn’t worried, though.”

“Good,” she replied, smiling brightly. “I’m glad we’ve had this chat. I find that things work a lot smoother when you’re up front about them.” Sherlock agreed and moved the conversation back onto more comfortable, and less emotional, ground.

 


	12. Chapter 12

“It’s only for three weeks,” Jo protested for what felt like the millionth time in the past week.

Life at 221b had gotten back into a normal pattern, for a given value of normal. Sherlock’s experiments were back in full swing, and the consulting detective business was becoming active again — he had even been invited on at the Yard in a more official (and paid) capacity. Jo was still working full time at the WPC, but she managed to find time to help with cases. They went out with Mary every other week or so, and they even started inviting Lestrade to come along every now and then. Sherlock had been back for a little over four months and things were finally calming down after his dramatic return, and they were slipping happily back into oblivion, thrilled that their fifteen minutes in the lime-light were finally over. Things had been going swimmingly, but that had changed about a week earlier. Jo had been working on opening a clinic in Georgia, but now that it was time for her to actually go and oversee the operation, Sherlock was kicking up a fuss.

The detective sighed heavily. “It doesn’t matter how long it is! Why do you have to be the one to go?”

“Because, Sherlock,” she replied, trying her best to keep from losing her temper, “it’s my job. I’ve been working on this project for months. I have to see it through.”

He rolled his eyes. “Why can’t you see it through from here? You’ve heard of a little thing called the internet; I’m sure that you can handle any problem that arises from behind a laptop.” They’d been having the same argument since they had started fighting, so Jo decided to change tactics, narrowly avoiding pointing out, again, that if something came up that needed her immediate reaction, over the internet wasn’t going to be anywhere near good enough.

She took a deep breath before speaking again, working hard to keep her voice as calm as possible. “Look, this is my job; you know that. You know that I would never try and stop you from taking a case overseas if that’s what you really wanted. Please try and see it from my perspective. This is something that I really want to do. And yes, it’s going to be awful to be away from home for three weeks, but it’s not the end of the world.” Sherlock sighed again and flopped onto the couch. He didn’t argue though, so Jo pressed on, sitting down beside him.

“You’ve said it yourself: this job was practically made for me; it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. And I was lucky to get it; my reputation wasn’t exactly at it’s highest at the time, and people weren’t lining up to hire me.”

Sherlock looked at her sharply. “What? I didn’t know that you had trouble finding work. I’m sorry…”

“No,” she cut him off, kicking herself for revealing something she had decided to keep to herself. “I don’t need you to apologize to me; it’s not your fault. What I’m trying to say here is that this is my dream job, and I’m incredibly lucky to have it. I’m admitting up front that being away from you for three weeks is a downside, but it’s not that bad and you know it. I’ll get some time off when I get back, and we can spend as much time together as you want, doing whatever you want. Please, I don’t want to still be fighting with you when I leave tomorrow, so can we stop this now?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, we can stop fighting now.”

“And you’re not mad at me anymore, right?” She pressed, just to be sure.

He nodded again, this time a bit more definitively. “I’m not angry. Even though I’m still not thrilled about you being gone for so long.”

Jo beamed at him. “That’s alright; I’ll miss you too.” She leaned down to kiss him and Sherlock allowed it, wrapping his arms around her and shifting until they were lying on the couch.

“Do you have to finish packing?” He asked, having lost track of how far along in the process she was at some point during their fight.

She shook her head. “Nope, I finished just before your third attempt to steal my passport. I’m all yours for the next,” she checked her watch, “fifteen hours and fifty-five minutes.”

“Good,” he replied, kissing her again. “I think it’s going to take me about that long to properly say goodbye.” Jo didn’t have an answer for that, too busy trying to get them both out of their clothes without falling off the couch.

*******************

Three weeks was longer than Jo had expected it to be. She and Sherlock had done their best to Skype as often as possible, but Jo was absolutely exhausted during what little free time she had, so their conversations never lasted too long, and she ended up falling asleep on him more often than she wanted to admit. Sherlock had sent her extremely long and detailed emails several times a day that seemed to be his direct stream of consciousness; they never failed to make her smile even if she felt guilty about how bland and lifeless her replies felt in comparison. Sherlock had emailed her about a case two days before she was scheduled to return, so she wasn’t expecting him to meet her at the airport or anything. In fact, she wasn’t sure if he would have met her at the airport even if he hadn’t had a case — it somehow didn’t seem like a very Sherlock thing to do — which was just fine by her; she was fairly sure that he wasn’t going to let her get out of arm’s reach for a while, and she’d much rather have had the chance to at least shower before her pseudo-quarantine started.

She texted Sherlock as soon as she was allowed to turn her phone back on, just to let him know that she had landed safely, and then continued to respond to his texts all the way through customs and baggage claim. She spent her cab ride home reading his disturbingly amusing blow-by-blow of the horrors of filing paperwork after a case was done. As soon as she got back to Baker Street, she headed straight for the shower, knowing that she only had a brief window of time before Sherlock was home and demanding her attention. She was in a pair of pajama bottoms and one of Sherlock’s t-shirts, having just finished plaiting her still damp hair, when she heard the front door slam closed and Sherlock’s steps on the stairs. She quickly finished what she was doing and hurried out just in time to meet him coming out of the kitchen. Before she even had the chance to say anything he enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug. She hugged him back as tightly as he could, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent that she had missed more than she ever thought she would.

“Sherlock, love, I do have to breathe,” she said after a few minutes had passed and her friend still showed no sighs of letting her go.

He released her immediately, looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry, I just missed you.”

“I missed you too,” she replied fondly, cupping his cheek and guiding him into a gentle kiss.

He nodded towards the kitchen once they pulled apart. “I brought Chinese. I thought you might be hungry.”

“I think I might be falling in love with you all over again,” she answered seriously, grinning up at him. “I am absolutely famished.”

He grinned, looking very pleased with himself. “Good; I was afraid you might have stopped for something to eat on your way back.”

“Nope,” she replied, shaking her head. “Not even food was worth putting off coming home.” Sherlock swooped down and kissed her again, beyond pleased that she was as happy to be home as he was to have her there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read this. The next few chapter's are when the story really begins to pick up, so I'm very excited about that. I'd love to hear from you either here or you could drop by [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com)


	13. Chapter 13

Not all of Sherlock’s cases were about murders; in fact, not even all of the best ones were about murders, and Jo’s favorites rarely involved anyone dying. They had just wrapped up one of these private cases; it had come through Sherlock’s website and had seemed downright trite in the beginning but had turned out to be anything but. An elderly, but wealthy, widow had written Sherlock, swearing that a portrait her husband had had painted of her when they were first married was a forgery, even though the artist was unknown that the painting had no value other than the sentimental. The evidence backed up her claims and eventually led them to discover family treasure, greedy (and artistically talented) grandchildren, and a rooftop chase that ranked somewhere in the duo’s top ten list of rooftop chases. And the best part, according to Sherlock, was that there was no tedious paperwork when it was all said and done. They made it back to Baker Street just before midnight, the adrenaline still singing in their veins.

Sherlock pushed her up against the wall and lifted her up. Jo wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, simultaneously impressed at his strength and worried that she was going to fall. Sherlock pushed her cardigan off her shoulders and then focused on getting her button-up undone, dividing his attention between sucking kisses on her neck trying to get her clothes off. He was almost finished when the heard Lestrade's distinctive tread on the stairs. The quickly separated and tried desperately to make it look like they hadn't been doing what they had just been doing, but it was too late. Lestrade came through the door without knocking and stopped short; even if their clothes hadn't been in utter disarray, he would have been able to tell what had been going on just from their flustered/guilty expression. The three of them stayed frozen in that awkward tableau for a few seconds before Sherlock broke it by fleeing without saying a word. The harsh sound of his bedroom door slamming behind him broke the other two out of their embarrassment.

Jo sighed, pulling the open ends of her shirt even tighter around herself. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

“Sorry,” Lestrade answered, “it’s just a habit.”

She rolled her eyes. “And now we’ve all been punished for it. Did you actually come by for a reason, or were you just popping in for a social call at ten til midnight?”

“I was going to drop off some cold-case files,” he answered, sounding oddly defensive. “It’s been a while since I’ve had anything to call Sherlock in on, and I thought that he might appreciate something to keep him occupied.”

She smiled, taking the offered files. “He will, eventually; once he gets over what I’m sure is abject mortification.”

“So how long have you two…” he asked, trailing off awkwardly.

“Six months,” she answered simply. “We didn’t didn’t want anyone to know, so if you could not tell anyone about what you saw, then we would really appreciate it.”

Lestrade nodded quickly. “Of course; I won’t breathe a word. Congratulations, by the way.”

Jo beamed at him. “Thank you. And thanks for the files. Have a good night.”

“You too,” he answered a little awkwardly. “Is Sherlock going to be alright, though? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him get that embarrassed about anything.”

She shrugged. “He’s a surprisingly private person. But seriously, don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to him and convince him that it’s not the end of the world. Everything will be fine.” Lestrade nodded again and left, still feeling more awkward than he felt he should after finding proof of something he had already guessed.

Jo made her way quietly into Sherlock’s bedroom, thankful that he hadn’t locked the door behind him. Sherlock lay in the center of his bed, covering his eyes with one arm and fisting the duvet in his other hand. Jo took a brief moment to smile at the slightly melodramatic, and very Sherlockian, pose before becoming serious again in order to deal with whatever crisis Sherlock was convinced they were in the middle of. It didn’t matter that the crisis was almost certainly entirely of Sherlock’s own making, it was real to him and thus it was real enough for Jo.

She started by carefully unlacing and then removing his shoes, taking off his socks as well because Sherlock hated wearing them if he wasn’t wearing shoes (and wearing shoes without socks was an abomination; Jo was just glad he didn’t own a pair of sandals because she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out which side of the line those fell on). She then moved to sit beside him so that she could gently run her fingers through his hair. After a few minutes of that, he had relaxed enough for her to pull his arm away from his face, settling it across her lap.

“There you are,” she said, smiling once he finally opened his eyes and looked at her. His cheeks were still slightly pink and he wasn’t saying anything, so she continued. “Come on Sherlock, it’s just Lestrade. You’ve known Greg for years; he’s not going to go blabbing what he saw to everyone he sees. And it’s not like he’s going to start cracking jokes about it at crime scenes; for one thing, he’s too decent a bloke for that, and for another he’s a professional. This isn’t the end of the world, love; I don’t know what you’re getting yourself so worked up over.”

He nodded, looking sheepish. “It was just unexpected, and embarrassing.”

“True,” she answered fondly. “But we weren’t doing anything wrong. We’re both consenting adults; it’s not like getting caught by your parents snogging on the couch when you’re a teenager.” He nodded again, looking more like his usual self and Jo smiled. “Manufactured crisis averted?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, you’ve successfully averted a crisis that didn’t really exist; congratulations.” Jo’s, no doubt snarky, reply was cut off by a rather large yawn. Sherlock smiled. “Come to bed. Aren’t you always the one going on about how important sleep is right after a case?”

“I need to shower first,” she said, lazily pushing herself off the bed. “You’re welcome to join me though.” She left for the bathroom without waiting for a response. Sherlock barely hesitated before getting up and following after her.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Jo sighed and and called for a cab, too tired to walk home. She was getting on a plane in two days to go set up another clinic, this time in Africa. Sherlock was less than thrilled, but he wasn’t putting up a fight this time, which Jo chose to count as a major win. She was stocking up on groceries, mostly frozen dinners and things that didn’t take that much attention to make; they wouldn’t last him the whole three weeks she was going to be gone — if they did then the two of them were going to have to have serious words when she got home — but it would definitely be a start. She was waiting outside of the market, her bags resting around her feet when a sleek black limousine pulled up in front of her. She sighed in obvious annoyance, but got in when the driver got out and opened the door for her, offering to take her bags. She was relieved to find Mycroft already sitting across from her because she really wasn’t in the mood to be dragged to some conveniently deserted warehouse.

“Do you actually have a phone?” She asked, with a heavy sigh. “Because I’ve just realized that I’ve been operating under the rather large assumption that you do. Maybe that’s what I’ll get you for Christmas next year, just to be sure.”

He gave her a look that was obviously meant to convey just how unamused he really was with her. “This is a conversation that I felt was best had in person due to the, delicate, nature of the subject matter.”

“Well I’m on a bit of a tight schedule at the moment,” she said, making a show of checking her watch. “So if you could just get on with it, that would be great because I really don’t have the time for a session of your grandstanding and rather textbook attempts at emotional manipulation and intimidation.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes but showed no other outward reaction (Jo counted it as a victory since she had long learned to count any reaction as a win). “You should seriously consider rescheduling your upcoming trip; the region isn’t exactly known for it’s political stability, and…”

“And that is exactly why I need to go,” she answered sharply. “I do what I do in order to help the people who need it the most. I’m not going to start shirking that responsibility now.”

“And what of your responsibilities at home?” He asked archly. “You claim to be committed to your dalliance with my brother, yet you cannot even stay in the country for more than a few months at a time. What sort of message do you think this is sending about your ability, and willingness, to settle down.”

Jo glared, doing her best to tamp down the sudden intense burst of anger she had come to associate with the elder Holmes. “First of all, my duty to my job in no way contradicts my commitment to Sherlock; second of all, he certainly isn’t looking for some submissive housewife to sit and wait for him to come home every night, and thirdly… Wait, there is no thirdly; thirdly you should mind your own damn business.”

“Sherlock is very much my business,” the politician answered coldly.

She scoffed. “And that’s worked out so well for him in the past.” Mycroft didn’t actually answer her, but he oozed disapproval for the entire rest on the car ride while Jo determinedly pretended to be somewhere, anywhere, else.

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Jo wasn't surprised that Sherlock was gone when she got to 221b - he had texted her about an experiment at Bart's - but coming home to an empty flat still didn't help her mood. She was still putting the groceries away when Sherlock came breezing in. He pressed an affectionate kiss onto her cheek before leaning against the counter and launching into a description of what he had been up to. He was a bit in the way, but Jo forced herself to bite her tongue, knowing that her annoyance wasn't really Sherlock’s fault and that taking it out on him wouldn’t be fair. She finished unloading her bags and got half way through making tea before giving up out of sheer restlessness. Sherlock fell silent and studied her, tilting his head to the side.

"What's wrong?" He asked, frowning. "My brother doesn't typically upset you this much."

She ignored his question and instead asked one of her own, glad for the opportunity. “If you had a problem with me, you’d tell me, right? You wouldn’t get your brother to be ridiculously passive aggressive for you.”

“No, of course I wouldn’t,” he answered, sounding genuinely concerned. “What the hell did he say to you?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, really; like I said, he was just really passive aggressive. I just wanted to check and make sure that I hadn’t missed something important.”

“You haven’t missed anything,” he promised, stepping towards her. “And I certainly wouldn’t tell Mycroft anything that I wouldn’t tell you.”

She nodded, leaning in to his embrace. “Of course, I know that. I just, forgot, momentarily.” Sherlock smiled after studying her for a moment before leaning down to kiss her, seemingly satisfied with her answer.

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Jo hated to admit that Mycroft was right about anything, but at this point she didn’t see any other way to put it. They had been on-site for a little over a week when the violence broke out, spurned on by an inflammatory speech given by a political leader. Jo had spent the next two days doing her best to keep their compound secure while still providing vital medical services and housing those trying to escape the violence. She tried desperately to reach the British embassy with no luck, and prayed to a god she had never really believed in for an evacuation; she had her team ready to go and knew that they could be out in under five minutes. Finally, on the third day their salvation came in the form of British soldiers in full battle gear.

“I need to speak with Dr. Jo Watson,” the man in charge said as soon as he was through the door.

Jo stepped forward. “That’s me; I’m in charge of the clinic. Eight of us are British citizens, and we can be fully evacuated in five minutes.”

A pained look crossed the soldier’s face. “I’m sorry ma’am, but we aren’t here for a full evacuation; we only have room for one. Our orders give you priority.”

“Of course they do,” she answered with a sigh, taking a brief moment to get her disappointment under control. “Well I can’t go; I can’t leave my team here.”

He nodded. “We were told to expect that. We still have one available seat, though.” Jo nodded, quickly making a decision. Part of her wanted to send Jenna Warren, the photojournalist, since she would be the least useful, but Melissa Carver had only been married for a few months and had found out she was pregnant right before they left.

“Melissa, get your things,” she ordered, purposefully not looking at anyone. Five minutes later, they were alone again. Jo was just thankful that the soldiers had been under orders to leave her a few weapons in the event that she had decided to stay behind.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Sherlock sat on the edge of his seat, his eyes fixated on the television screen. The news coverage was spotty and focused on areas Sherlock couldn’t care less about, but it was all that he had. Mycroft had told him that Jo had declined evacuation - instead sending a newly-pregnant subordinate in a completely unsurprising move that proved her inherent nobility - but had refused to give him any more information than that. So Sherlock watched the news, flipping channels during commercials or when they decided to talk about something else. He ignored Lestrade’s texts and calls until the man finally gave up, and he only tolerated Mrs. Hudson because he knew Jo would furious if she came home and found that he had been unspeakably rude to their landlady. And Jo was coming home; the alternative was unthinkable.

When the door to the flat opened for the third time that hour Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson, I’m fine, really. This ceaseless hovering of yours is unnecessary.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not Mrs. Hudson then, isn’t it,” Mary said from the doorway.

Sherlock looked up, surprised to see her there and annoyed with himself for being so. “What are you doing here?”

“Where else would I be?” She asked with a shrug, stepping into the room. “I’m scared for her too, you know, and I guess I thought it would be better to be scared with someone else than to be sitting home alone. Do you mind?” Sherlock shook his head, not saying anything as he turned his attention back to the screen. Mary sat beside him on the sofa, not bothering to put even a cushion of space between them. When the broadcasters started talking about the lack of information they had about the British citizens still in the country, Mary reached over and took his hand, intertwining their fingers. Sherlock froze, not quite sure what to do, but after a few moments he relaxed again and allowed himself the comfort.

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Jo sighed as she lowered herself onto her bed after an incredibly long day. It had been a week since the soldiers had left with Melissa and there was still no sign of evacuation; their clinic was on the outskirts of a smaller town and wasn’t near any of the epicenters of violence, but it was still nerve-wracking. She had spent most of the day helping a woman through a ridiculously difficult labor that ended in an emergency c-section. In the end, the mother had died anyway, which was depressing, but the baby had lived, although what they were going to do with him remained to be seen. She was hot and sweaty and smeared with someone else’s blood; what she really wanted was a a shower, but the couldn’t spare the water, so she made do with a damp wash-rag.

She had only been asleep for a few hours when she was woken up by the sound of a commotion. She had a brief moment of sleepy hope that they were finally being evacuated before she woke up more thoroughly and realized that the noises didn’t quite match those of a rescue. She bolted out of bed and shoved her feet into her boots. She was just tying her laces when one of the other doctors came rushing in to tell her that there was a crowd of men outside. Jo refrained from pointing out just how obvious that was at this point.

Jo looked out the window next to the door and saw a group of about ten men with large sticks and cricket bats congregating outside. Jo stepped out onto the porch of the building with one of the local doctor who was working with them at the clinic. She had a handgun at her side and had flicked the safety off before stepping out the door. Adrenaline was surging through her veins as she braced for the worst, but no one rushed her immediately, which was something of a good sign, at least.

“Tell them that they have to leave,” she said to the man beside her, not taking her eyes off the crowd. “Tell them that we’re armed and are willing to put up a fight.” Her companion companion barely got through his translation before one of the men ran forward. Jo raised her gun, leveling it at him in a hope that it would deter him. It didn’t, and she pulled the trigger right as he reached the steps. He was close enough that some of his blood splattered back on her, but she never flinched.

After a moment of preternatural stillness, the rest of the crowd dispersed; Jo stayed outside until she was sure the threat had passed. Once inside, Jo did her best to comfort those who were beginning to well and truly panic (she wasn’t sure how effective she was considering the fact that she was covered in yet another persons blood). It took her almost half an hour to get everyone to go back to their rooms and she was unbelievably thankful that she ended up being the odd person out when it came to sharing rooms after Melissa left. After another cursory wipe down with a flannel, she collapsed onto her bed again and quickly fell asleep to thoughts of home.

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Mary had practically moved into 221b, and while Sherlock felt as if this should annoy him, it was undeniably nice to have someone else there — the flat was decidedly too quiet on the occasions that she did leave him alone. She couldn’t afford to take the days off, but managed to do most of her work via laptop, only occasionally having to go into the office. She nagged him about eating and sleeping; he played the violin for her on the rare occasions that she forced him to turn the news off. He was too preoccupied to even think about running the experiments he had planned for Jo’s absence, but he answered the questions Mary had about what she found in the kitchen. He had previously thought himself incapable of living in such close quarters with anyone other that Jo, but, under different circumstances, he imagined that living with Mary could be rather pleasant.

She broke him out of his musings by waving a plate of stir fry under his nose. “Here. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” he answered, eying the food warily.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s a lie, Sherlock Holmes, and I’m not going to stand for it. I went into your death trap of a kitchen and actually cooked real food, so you’re going to bloody well eat it; understood?” Sherlock took the plate without a word. Mary sat down beside him with a sigh.

“This is actually very good,” he said a few minutes later.

Mary snorted. “Thanks; it’s one of the few things I can cook really well, though, so I wouldn’t get used to it if I were you.”

Later, after they finished eating and Mary spent five minutes sending him increasingly pointed looks, Sherlock took their dishes into the kitchen to wash up. A few minutes later, Sherlock was half way up to his elbows in dishwater when he heard a strangled cry come from the living room. He rushed in and saw Mary still sitting on the couch; she looked deathly pale and was fixated on the television screen. Sherlock turned his attention to the news, dreading what he was going to see.

A blond woman was doing her best to look grave as she spoke. “To repeat, we have confirmed reports that the seven British citizens have been evacuated from the area. There are also reports that one of the doctors was shot and killed and several others were wounded during the evacuation. The identity of the deceased has not been released. Our thoughts are with those who have lost a loved one today.”

The show cut to commercial but Sherlock was no longer paying attention. His legs no longer seemed up to the task of supporting his weight and he dropped to the couch; his lungs didn’t seem to be working properly either, and he felt tears prick his eyes. Eventually, after god knows how long, Sherlock’s brain started to come back online and he fumbled for his mobile, punching in Mycroft’s number with more enthusiasm than he’d ever had before. It rang for what seemed like an eternity, and Sherlock was rather terrified that his brother wouldn’t answer; he couldn’t help but breathe sigh of release when he heard Mycroft’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Is she alright?” He demanded, not bothering with opening pleasantries. “Was she the one who was shot?”

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock calm down. Your overly sentimental panic isn’t going to help anything.”

“Tell me right now!” He bellowed, trying to come up with a suitable threat if Mycroft failed to comply.

The politician sighed again, this time sounding a bit distressed. “I don’t know. Things are still hectic and information is not coming through typical channels. Despite what you might think, I cannot simply access any information I wish. There is a chain of command that must be respected.” Sherlock groaned and ended the call, tossing his phone on the cushion beside him.

“What did he say?” Mary asked, a mixture of terror and hope in her voice.

He shook his head. “He doesn’t know anything, or if he does, then he’s not telling me.” Mary sighed and collapsed back against the pillows, not knowing what to say.

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Things were definitely getting worse, and Jo knew that she was running out of time to make a decision of whether or not to stay at the clinic and wait for evacuation. The locals had already decided to flee, taking the newborn with them, and her staff was starting to doubt whether anyone was coming for them at all. Jo was beginning to have doubts of her own, but at least they currently had enough supplies to last them a while and enough medical equipment to cover anything up to and including small-scale surgeries. Still, they couldn’t stay indefinitely — not if the few radio reports they had managed to somewhat-translate were any indication of the increase in violence.

It was early in the morning on the tenth day; Jo was on watch, and everyone else was asleep. It was deathly silent, almost peaceful, and she found it easy for her mind to wander. She thought mostly about Sherlock — worrying about how he was handling all of this — but also about the others: Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. She even spared a thought or two for her family; although she had few pleasant memories that didn’t involve her grandfather. She felt homesick for probably the first time in her life; she hadn’t expected it to be an actual physical sensation, and it wasn’t a pleasant surprise to find out that it was. Afghanistan had never been this bad, and she briefly toyed with the idea of agreeing with Mycroft — sentiment had made her weak — but pushed the thought away with the knowledge that it had also made her stronger than she ever thought possible.

She was shocked out of her thoughts by the sound of creaking metal as the gate to their complex was opened. Jo’s heart stuttered in her chest as she made her way to the front of the building, checking to make sure that it wasn’t refugees seeking asylum before she sounded the alarm. Her knees almost buckled with relief when she saw the familiar uniforms of British troops. She ran over to the intercom behind the front desk and announced they eminent evacuation before going outside to greet the men. There were ten of them, fully armed, and Jo barely restrained herself from kissing each and every one of them out of sheer joy.

“I’m Doctor Jo Watson. You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” she said to the man clearly in charge. “There are seven of us, no injuries, and we can be out in a matter of minutes.” Her voice was brisk and professional, her posture distinctly military after almost two weeks at high alert.

The man nodded, still scanning the area for threats. “Good. This place isn’t safe. We have two Blackhawks about a klick away. Hopefully we can get there before any real trouble breaks out; our reports say that the violence is definitely going to spread here next.”

“Let me make sure my people are all together,” she said calmly. “And then we’ll be out.”

“Good,” he answered crisply. “We’ll stay out here. Don’t take too long.”

Jo didn’t answer him, just turned on her heel and walked briskly back into the building. Her original hope and elation was fading fast, a grim determination settling in it’s place. She quickly went to her room, grabbing her already packed rucksack and making sure that she had the extra clips to the handgun in her pockets. When she finished, she assembled her staff in the foyer. They all looked as determined as she was — if a bit more frightened — with their bags on their backs. They hadn’t been trained for this, but Jo repressed the pessimistic voice inside of her that kept mentioning it; she knew that they could use all the luck they could get, so she plastered on the smile that had got her through four and a half tours and did her best to exude positive energy.

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Sherlock was asleep, curled up in his chair, when he was startled awake by something. His eyes were gritty with too little sleep and he was disoriented after being woken up out of REM. It took him a few moments to realize that what had woken him up was the sound of his phone ringing and a few more after that to find it without waking Mary, who was stretched out on the sofa, sound asleep. He picked it up right before it went to voicemail and answered without checking who it was; if it was anyone other than Mycroft, he was going to hang up and go back to staring at the pointless news until he dozed off again. His voice was gravely and cracked on his ‘hello,’ but he cleared his throat and tried again. He heard a gasp on the other line and then someone said his name; he recognized the voice immediately.

“Jo, please tell me that’s really you,” he said breathlessly, barely making it back to his chair before collapsing.

There was a dry chuckle that sounded even more tired than he felt. “It’s not like you to ask obvious questions, Sherlock. Of course it’s really me.”

“Right, sorry,” he said, trying desperately to make himself wake up faster. “Are you okay?”

She sighed heavily and hesitated before answering. “No, I’m really not. I’m not okay at all.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hating that even after all these months, it still felt awkward to talk about emotions. “The news said that one of you was killed during the evacuation.”

There was another sigh and a pause long enough that Sherlock began to wonder if Jo was ever going to say anything in response. “Yeah, Annie. She was a sweet girl — just out of med school and idealistic as hell. She never stood a chance; she was never trained for a war zone — none of them were. We didn’t even have armor, Sherlock.” She trailed off, her voice choked with emotion. He could hear her ragged breathing in the receiver and could clearly imagine her forcing herself not to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, feeling a bit sick at how lame that sounded. “The news said that there had been a casualty, but they didn’t say who. I know that you have a habit of throwing yourself right into the middle of dangerous situations, and Mycroft wouldn’t tell me anything. I thought that…”

Jo cut him off. “Christ Sherlock, I’m so sorry; I promise you I’m fine: just a few scrapes and bruises.” She paused before continuing. “I should have come home when I had the chance; I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking that it was your job to stay, and that your staff didn’t stand a chance without you,” he answered firmly. “You were doing what Jo Watsons do: protecting people. Expecting anything else from you would be trying to change you, and that’s the last thing I want.”

She let out a deep breath and Sherlock thought he heard the sound of her thumping her head against the wall. “Sherlock, I don’t think anyone’s ever loved me quite like you do.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” He asked, smiling just a bit.

She chuckled. “It’s a very good thing. I wouldn’t change you either, you know; not even if it means I never have a clean kitchen again.”

He chuckled as well before growing serious again. “I do love you, very much. Sometimes I worry that I don’t tell you enough.”

“You tell me plenty,” she replied, sounding just as serious. “I love you too.” They fell silent for a few moments, just listening to each other breathe.

Finally Sherlock spoke again. “Mary’s been staying here.”

“Really, what’s she doing there?” Jo asked, sounding almost bemused. “I’m kind of surprised you two haven’t tried to kill each other.”

He shrugged even though he knew she couldn’t see him. “We’ve been keeping what Mary calls ‘a ridiculous, emotionally stunted vigil.’ And we get along surprisingly well, but she probably will kill me if I don’t wake her up to talk to you.”

“Alright,” she agreed. “But put me on speaker, please.” Sherlock wasn’t sure of her reasoning behind the request, but he didn’t argue. Waking Mary up was something of a process (he’d learned that it was prudent to be gentle after the first time she had decked him), and he could hear Jo laughing at him over the tinny speakers.

When he finally coaxed her into wakefulness and explained what was going on, Mary yanked the phone out of his hand, thankfully leaving it on speaker. “Jo? Is that you?”

“The one and only,” the doctor answered cheerfully. Sherlock realized immediately why Jo had wanted to be on speaker; it distorted her voice just enough that even he wouldn’t have been able to tell that she was faking if it wasn’t for their previous conversation.

Mary breathed out a sigh of obvious relief. “Good. Are you alright, though?”

“I’m fine,” she lied easily. “Absolutely exhausted, but that’s nothing a good night’s rest won’t fix.”

She broke into a huge smile. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in ages. Where are you now?”

“A military base in Germany,” she answered simply. “We’ll be flying out in a few hours, and I’ll be home by dinner tomorrow.” There was the muffled sound someone saying something in the background and Jo pulled away from the receiver for a moment to answer.

“Looks like it’s my turn for the shower,” she said brightly. “So I have to go, but I’ll see you guys soon.” She quickly gave them the details of her flight and then rang off.

They were quiet for a few moments before Mary turned to him with a grin. “I’m so happy I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t,” he answered dryly, giving her a wary look. Still, he didn’t flinch away when she leaned in and kissed his cheek, rolling his eyes instead.

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It was hot and dusty and Jo hated every godforsaken second of it. She missed the comforting weight of a flak jacket even as her shirt stuck to her uncomfortably; the gun in her hand was heavy and slicked with sweat, the metal uncomfortably warm against her skin. Every so often her leg twinged, and when she coupled that with the obvious signs of hyper-vigilance, she didn’t hold out much hope that this nightmare wasn’t going to land her back in therapy. Part of her wanted to scream, but she ruthlessly suppressed it and continued scanning their surroundings. The sound of gunfire in the distance made her undeniably twitchy, but she tried to comfort herself with the fact that it was too far away to be a threat to them. She was taking up the rear and they were moving at a steady but unchallenging pace. They were almost to the helicopters when one of the soldiers dropped back to march beside her.

“You’ve served,” he said matter of factly.

She nodded. “Yeah, four and a half tours in Afghanistan.”

“I bet that half tour is a bitch though,” he answered with grin.

She chuckled. “That’s one word for it.” His reply was cut off by the crack of a gunshot and the sound of someone screaming.

One of her staff had been hit in the arm, but Jo stayed where she was, trying to figure out where the shot had come from. Suddenly, a volley of shots broke out, all coming from different directions. The group broke into a run, heading for the helicopters since the buildings surrounding them obviously weren’t any sort of safe haven. A few of the women tripped, but they picked themselves up quickly and there were no further injuries than a few scraped knees. When they finally reached the field where the helicopters were waiting, Jo didn’t think she’d ever been so happy to hear the deafening sounds of the blades. She was still one of the last people into the clearing, and so was the closest when Annie, the youngest in their group, fell. She seemed to be having trouble getting back up, so Jo quickly ran over to her and hauled her to her feet. It wasn’t until Annie was listing to the side, obviously unable to support her own weight, that Jo looked down and saw the horrifying red spreading through her shirt. Jo cursed fervently, though the helicopters were too loud for her to even hear herself, and did her best to half carry, half drag Annie to the nearest door. They were only a few feet away when Jo felt searing pain shoot out from her leg. Her knees buckled and she fell, trying desperately to keep holding Annie up even as she was gasping past the pain. Within moments two of the men had dashed forward, easily lifting them into the waiting aircraft.

Jo leaned back against her seat, using the breathing techniques her only mostly useless therapist had taught her to push past the pain as one of her colleagues cut her trousers away and dressed her wound. Annie was stretched out on the floor of the helicopter, and Jo watched avidly as two of the other doctors worked desperately to keep her alive; Jo knew from experience that it was a lost cause. Still, Jo didn’t look away until they finally called time of death. She vaguely registered Jenna taking pictures, but she was too exhausted to try and stop her. Instead, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, forcing herself to keep calm as she waited for the nightmare to end.

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Sherlock, as a rule, hated airports; there was too much humanity funneled into one place, and everyone was stressed and vaguely wary of everyone else. But he refused to wait a second longer than he had to to see Jo again, and so he stood in the middle of Heathrow International, staring fixedly at the Arrivals and Departures board. Mary was back at Baker Street, having declined his invitation to accompany him to meet Jo, saying that she didn’t want to intrude on their reunion. He was mostly grateful for this consideration, but he felt more than slightly awkward standing by himself. Mycroft had, at least, assured him that there would be no reporters on hand to capture the moment and then sell it to the highest bidder; Sherlock had every confidence that his relationship with Jo would one day become public knowledge, but he had no desire for it to become known like this.

Finally, the board ticked over to show that Jo’s flight had arrived, and Sherlock became even more antsy as he waited for Jo to make her way to where he was. There was a crowd waiting at the foot of the escalators, and the detective was standing in the back, unwilling to risk being accosted by security agents for causing a scene by trying to push his way to the front. The passengers began to appear and were either greeted by their friends and family or made their way quickly towards the baggage claim; the crowd began to disperse and still there was no sign of Jo. He saw a few people he recognized as Jo’s colleagues, which was somewhat of a relief, but soon even they were gone and Sherlock was left alone waiting for his partner. He began to imagine all of the horrible things that could have kept Jo from arriving — ranging from her having a sudden heart attack in a bathroom stall to her being kept from getting on the plane in Germany — irrationally ignoring the fact that an airport was one of the safest places on the planet, security wise. He breathed a sigh of relief when she finally appeared on the escalator.

Jo was wearing a pair of loose fitting trousers and a baggy jumper; she looked beyond exhausted, but she managed a genuine smile when she saw him waiting for her. Sherlock rocked on the balls of his feet, not wanting to overwhelm her by being overeager but simultaneously wanting to rush forward and wrap her up in his arms. Jo dropped her bag unceremoniously at his feet before launching into a hug without a word. He hugged her back, burying his nose in her hair and breathing deeply.

“Fuck I missed you,” she said, pressing her face against his neck.

He nodded, showing no sign of letting her go. “I missed you too.” He felt her start to cry and just held on tighter.

A few minutes later the pulled apart and Sherlock leaned down and kissed her, cupping her face in his hands and trying to avoid whimpering. Jo kept her arms around his waist but had insinuated her hands between his coat and his body. She sighed into the kiss, sounding relived and exhausted and happy and devastated all at once.

“Take me home,” Jo said quietly after they had finally separated.

Sherlock nodded, bending down to pick up her bag for her. “Mary is waiting for us.”

“That’s nice,” she answered, sounding tired even as she fell into step beside him. They were almost to the front door when he realized that Jo was favoring her left leg. He froze, quickly looking her up and down again and frowning.

“You’re hurt,” he said, sounding more than slightly panicked.

She shrugged, smiling reassuringly at him. “Just a few scratches. I tripped, and I’m a bit sore; that’s all. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Well as long as you’re sure that you don’t need to see a doctor,” he said skeptically, still looking at her as if he expected her to collapse at any second.

She rolled her eyes. “Sherlock, I’ve been surrounded by doctors for weeks; the last thing I need is to see another one. I promise you that I have been well taken care of.” She slipped her arm through his and nudged him forward, leaning against him as they walked.

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Mary’s greeting was as effusive as had been expected. She hugged a smiling Jo, but left in less than ten minutes, recognizing that her friend was too tired for much else. She did, however, get Jo to promise to meet her for lunch at some point in the next week. Once they were alone, Jo’s smile slipped away and she leaned her weight against her partner again. Sherlock gently rubbed her back, taking a moment to revel in the feeling of finally being home.

“I’m going to go change into things not involving buttons,” she said after a few minutes, still not moving. “And it would be absolutely fantastic if you could order dinner.”

Sherlock smiled, dropping a soft, affectionate kiss on her forehead. “Of course. Do you want anything in particular?”

“You can deduce it,” she said cheekily before giving him a quick kiss and heading towards their shared bedroom.

As soon as the door was shut behind her, Jo let out a sigh and let herself limp as she walked over to the wardrobe. She had somehow managed to forget just how much being shot hurt; it was just a flesh wound, but she still wanted to lay down and not move for days — and maybe convince Sherlock to watch Monty Python (she had a sneaking suspicion that he was a secret fan and she wanted the chance to test her theory). She got her pajamas out of the drawer and set them on the bed before going over to the wardrobe and getting the med-kit out of the bottom of the wardrobe so that she could change her dressing. Unfortunately, due to the position of the wound, she wasn’t going to be able to do it while sitting; she just hoped that she could manage it without falling over.

She had braced herself against the wall as she stepped out of her trousers when she heard Sherlock’s voice behind her. “Jo? What’s going on?” She sighed and leaned her forehead against the wall as Sherlock continued. “That doesn’t look like a scratch. Were you shot?”

“Just a little bit,” she said quietly. “It really isn’t that bad; I didn’t want to worry you.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you need help changing your bandages?” She turned her head and saw him standing in the doorway, looking pale and a nervous as he clutched at a couple of takeaway menus.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said, forcing herself to stand up straight. “I mean, I can manage myself if you don’t want to.”

He shook his head, finally stepping further into the room. “No, of course I’ll help. Sit down on the bed.” She nodded and limped over to the bed, no longer bothering to try and hide the injury. Sherlock went and knelt in front of her, opening the med-kit on the floor beside him. After only a few moments Jo felt the need to fill the silence.

“It happened during the evacuation,” she said quietly, looking down at the top of her friend’s head. “I was less than two yards away from the helicopter. I was carrying Annie after she had been shot. It’s barely more than a graze; it’ll just be sore for a few weeks.”

He shook his head, still focusing on what he was doing. “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. I thought you trusted me.”

“Of course I trust you,” she said softly, beginning to run her fingers through her hair. “It’s just that I knew how worried you were, and I didn’t want to make it worse. I just wanted it to be over with.”

He sighed. “So you were just going to hide the fact that you got shot? How exactly was that supposed to work.”

“I hadn’t really thought it through,” she admitted, still playing with his curls. “I guess I just thought that I’d do what I did before, but obviously that wasn’t going to work.”

He looked up at her sharply, “What do you mean what you did before? Are you telling me that you’ve been shot before and hid it from me?”

“No,” she said quickly, “not shot. It was just a couple cracked ribs and a minor knife wound.”

He froze. “A minor knife wound? You’re telling me that you got knifed and just didn’t tell me! Why the hell would you do that?”

She shrugged, forcing herself to make eye contact. “You always get so upset when I’m hurt, and I didn’t want to bother you. And it’s not like I hid any major injuries from you.”

He was quiet for a moment before shaking his head. “For the record, breaking bones, getting stabbed, and being shot do not count as minor injuries.” He paused before continuing, sounding pained. “Jo, you can’t keep hiding it from me when you get hurt; especially if you’re doing it to keep me from getting upset. I’d rather be scared out of my mind every once in a while than constantly worried that you’re hurt and just not telling me. Please Jo, promise me that you won’t try to do this again.”

“Alright,” she said quietly, trying to sound as sincere as possible. “I promise I’ll tell you if I get hurt again. I’m sorry; I am.”

He nodded and went back to changing her bandage. When he finished, he rested his head on her uninjured leg and sat in silence, rubbing his thumb against the bone in her ankle. Jo didn’t say anything either. Instead, she continued to pet his hair, occasionally letting her fingers drift down to trace the features of his face. He closed his eyes and seemed to go boneless. Jo felt the tension finally begin to drain out of her. She was just beginning to seriously consider falling asleep when her stomach growled, shattering the quiet of the room.

Sherlock blinked up at her. “I was going to order dinner, but I couldn’t decide between Indian and Thai.”

“Indian sounds fantastic,” she answered with a smile. He nodded and pushed himself off the ground and went to go make the call.

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After dinner Sherlock and Jo ended up on the sofa together, watching Monty Python’s Search for the Holy Grail on dvd. It was normally the type of thing that he would protest just on principle, but he was so happy to have Jo back at home that he didn’t even complain a little bit when Jo asked him to put it on. He was even able to admit, at least to himself, that it was fairly amusing. As entertaining as it was, it still wasn’t long before Jo started stifling yawns. It was obvious that she was exhausted, and Sherlock kept expecting her to announce that she was finally going to bed; in fact, he was actually looking forward to it. But she never did. They got about half way through the film before Sherlock decided that enough was enough: Jo was stifling more and more yawns, and was having trouble keeping her eyes open, no longer even chuckling at jokes he knew she found funny.

He reached for the remote and shut the television off. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Hey I was watching that,” she said, pushing herself up from where she had been laying against his chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re exhausted Jo; you’re practically falling asleep where you sit. We can finish watching it tomorrow.” He stood up and held out his hand to her. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

“Maybe I should sleep upstairs,” she said quietly after a few moments of hesitation. She was still sitting on the couch and Sherlock could see that she was now looking distinctly nervous; as the silence carried on she began to fidget awkwardly, so Sherlock sat down beside her with a sigh.

“Why should you do that?” He asked, his heart rate kicking up a bit even as he kept his voice calm.

Jo shrugged, looking down at the carpet in front of her instead of at him. “Because I’ll probably have nightmares tonight. They can be a bit disturbing.”

“Would it be better for you if you slept by yourself?” He questioned, hating the thought of spending yet another night without her.

She hesitated, obviously considering lying before answering honestly. “No, it’s always better when you’re there.”

“Alright then,” he replied. “We’ll both sleep in our bed then.” He stood up again, and this time she took his hand when he offered it.

Once they’re in bed and settled with Sherlock spooned up behind her, Jo sighed. “Aren’t you going to get bored? I mean, it is a bit early for you to go to bed.”

“I won’t get bored,” he promised. “I just want to be where ever you are.”

Jo smiled, lifting his hand from where it was pressed against her stomach and giving it an affectionate kiss. “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. Feedback would be absolutely wonderful, either here or over on [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com)
> 
> I know that this chapter is pretty long, but it's my favorite and I didn't want to break it up.


	15. Chapter 15

Jo had been home for a little over a month and she was still on what was being termed a ‘paid sabbatical,’ and as much as she loved her job, she wasn’t too eager to get back to it. She and Sherlock had had a few private cases, nothing too strenuous, but this was her first crime scene since the fiasco that was her trip to Africa. She caught Sherlock giving her appraising glances the entire cab ride over, but as soon as they reached the scene, he focused entirely on his work.

The murder was identical to one that had been committed two weeks before: a man with a medium build had been struck several times with a blunt object (which had been conveniently left at the scene), strangled (the cause of death in both cases had been asphyxiation), and then stripped and posed with his legs spread and his arms above his head, crossed at the wrist. The only problem was that a fingerprint found on the bloodied cricket bat found at the first scene had led police to Alice Miller, who quickly confessed to the crime. Miss Miller had lived alone, kept to herself at work, and had no social life to speak of; there was nothing in either the evidence or her confession that even suggested the presence of an accomplice. And so Lestrade had called Sherlock in, hoping that he could shed some light on the situation.

Sherlock studied the scene carefully, even stopping to snap a few pictures with his mobile. He asked Jo to confirm time of death, but other than that the doctor just stood next to Lestrade and watched the detective work. When he finished his examination, Sherlock demanded to see the case file and evidence for the previous murder; Lestrade, as usual, offered the pair a ride to the station, and Sherlock, as usual, declined, refusing to step foot inside a police cruiser. The resulting cab ride was silent, as expected, and they both spent the time thinking over the facts of the case; however, Jo was surprised when Sherlock reached over and held her hand where it lay on the seat between them. She couldn’t help but smile to herself as she looked out the window at the passing scenery.

At Scotland Yard Lestrade set them up in an interview room. Sherlock immediately began pouring through the evidence, spreading all of the photographs out on the table in order to try and recreate the crime scene; his partner had to bite back a smile at how he muttered deductions and complaints to himself. For lack of anything better to do, Jo read Alice Miller’s medical file, which Lestrade had thoughtfully included. The doctor wasn’t really expecting to find anything useful, but she changed her mind after just a cursory overview, going back to look at each entry more closely as a picture of what had happened began to form in her mind.

“So, any sign of her accomplice?” Lestrade asked when he came back half an hour later.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “There was no accomplice; Alice Walker is innocent. She is physically incapable of committing either of these murders.”

“You’re telling me that she was framed and then she confessed to a murder she didn’t commit?” The DI asked incredulously. “So who the hell did it?”

“The boyfriend,” Jo answered simply. “Or girlfriend, but statistically speaking, most likely boyfriend.”

Sherlock turned to her with a grin as Lestrade spluttered. “And how do you know that? No one said anything about a boyfriend.”

“Her medical file,” she replied, trying not to look too smug. “She’s paid a visit to the A&E about once every two or three months for the past three years. A couple broken wrists, cracked ribs, head trauma. She always said that she either slipped in the shower or fell down the stairs, but these are text book signs of domestic abuse. And if she’s in an abusive relationship, then it would explain why she has little to know social life: abusers are often extremely possessive and keep their victims from associating with other people. Walker has no family, she inherited the house she’s living in from her parents about the same time the hospital visits started. She’s not close to any of her neighbors and if her boyfriend doesn’t live with her and works nights, coming and going at strange hours, then it’s likely that no one really noticed him. And if the abuse was as bad as these files suggest, then it’s likely that he, or she, would have enough sway over Walker in order to frighten her into confessing for a murder she didn’t commit.”

Her boyfriend was still grinning at her. “That was brilliant.”

“Thanks,” she answered, blushing just a bit. “It was simple, really.”

“So how do we find this unnamed, unmentioned, hypothetical boyfriend?” Lestrade questioned, managing to sound both skeptical and resigned to the fact that the duo was probably right.

“We ask Alice, of course,” Sherlock answered, heading for the door with a swirl of his coat.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

“Well that was a complete waste of time,” Sherlock grumbled as they climbed into a cab.

Jo shrugged, agreeing but trying to be diplomatic. “I told you not to expect too much. She’s obviously terrified.”

“Wouldn’t she be less terrified if we were able to put him in jail?” He asked, still sounding disgruntled.

She sighed. “It’s not always that simple. When you’ve lived in fear for so long, it’s hard to imagine life being any different. And if he’s been effectively controlling every aspect of her life for years, then it’s probably hard for her to think that she could do anything that he wouldn’t know about.” He just hummed in response, and snuck looks at his parter out of the corner of his eye. To anyone else, she probably looked just as she always did, but Sherlock could see the tightness in her jaw and the faraway look in her eyes; after a few moments he chalked it up to her empathizing with the woman and tried not to worry about it too much.

They spent an hour searching Alice Walker’s home for any sign of another occupant. They found a few male clothes, but nothing to identify who the boyfriend was or where he could be found; there weren’t even any pictures of the couple. Finally, they found a bank statement addressed to a Robert Hanover. After a little bit of research, Sherlock discovered that the man worked the night shift at a warehouse and had a history of violence. Jo insisted on calling Lestrade for the final confrontation, and the case was concluded in a relatively boring manner; Hanover took a few swings but was no match for the three of them working together even if he was overly large. His motive was even boring: latent homosexuality and internalized homophobia which he projected onto his victims.

After giving their statements, Sherlock and Jo went out to dinner. Jo was quieter than usual but not worryingly so, and they took their time walking back to the flat; her wound no longer hurt, and they both enjoyed her ability to move freely again. When they reached home Sherlock went back to the experiment he had been working on before Lestrade called and Jo set about doing a bit of housework she had let lapse while she was healing. Sherlock put the case out of his mind, and they had a pleasant evening in.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Sherlock woke up at to an empty bed, the cold stretch of mattress beside him making it obvious that Jo hadn’t been there for a while. Concerned, he got up to see where she had gone, wanting to make sure that nothing was wrong other than one of her occasional bouts of insomnia. He found her curled up on the sofa wearing only one of his sleep shirts. She had started a fire in the grate and was staring into the flames, absentmindedly tracing the tattoo on her forearm. She had closed the curtains and hadn’t turned on any of the lamps, so the only light in the room came from the fire.

“Jo, what are you doing?” He asked quietly, standing by the couch.

Jo blinked up at him in surprise before shrugging. “Thinking; I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s three in the morning,” he said, sitting down beside her. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until morning.

She was silent long enough that he was beginning to wonder if she’d ever answer him before she gestured to her tattoo. “Do you know what this means?”

He thought for a moment, confused by the change in topic and trying to get his tired mind to work. “Traditionally, the Dahlia symbolizes warning or change and thorns symbolize protection or self-preservation.”

“Very good,” she answered, offering him a fleeting smile. “It was the first tattoo I got done; I was nineteen.” She fell silent again and eventually it became clear that she was going to need a bit of prompting.

“Why did you get it done?” He asked, reaching over to take her free hand in his.

She sighed and seemed to steel herself before speaking, seeming to change the subject once again. “When I was seventeen, the coolest boy in my class was Eddy Howard, and for some reason he fancied me. Home was awful, to say the least, and I thought that he was amazing. He knew so much more than me and promised to take me away from that stupid little town. I’d never had a boyfriend before; I was just the weird girl who got caught kissing another girl at the dance, didn’t mind doing dissections, and didn’t know how to put on make up to save her life. I had no idea what the hell he was doing with me, but he said he loved me and showed me off to his friends. When we finished school, I got into a bunch of places, but I followed him to London.

“The first time he hit me was about three months after we started dating. He saw me talking to Natalie Williams, the girl I snogged at the dance, and was convinced that I was cheating on him; he cried, I didn’t, and he promised he’d never do it again. The second time he hit me was about a month after that; I think I was late meeting him for a date or something. Pretty soon I was making visits to the A&E, telling people that I tripped and fell down the stairs or slipped in the shower; I played rugby too, so it was easy to pass some of them off as just a product of a violent game. My parents loved Eddy and they never suspected anything. Everyone told me how lucky I was to find a guy like him, and Eddy made it very clear that he was better than me in just about every way; he made me feel like such an idiot.

“Anyway, I met Mary during the first day of orientation, and we became friends. Her birthday is in June, and I was going to take her out to dinner. For whatever reason, Eddy decided that he didn’t want me to go, but I decided that I was going to anyway; it was Mary’s birthday and I didn’t want to let her down. We got into a huge fight, and I walked out. He followed me and ended up pushing me down the stairs of our building. He followed me down and ended up grabbing me by the throat. I honestly thought he was going to kill me. I had broken my arm when I fell, so I couldn’t even try to fight back. Luckily, Mary showed up and threatened to taser him. She took me the A&E and moved me out of the flat I shared with Eddy and into hers. I never went back.

“When I finally got out of my cast I had a scar from where the bone had come through my skin,” she paused, taking a moment to place Sherlock’s fingers over the scar that had never really healed properly. “I absolutely hated it, and Mary suggested that I get a tattoo to cover it up. And so I got this to remind myself that I was never going to let something like that happen to me again.”

Sherlock felt a bit sick to his stomach as he leaned over and pressed a kiss against her temple. “Jo, I had no idea.”

“I’ve never told anyone,” she answered with a shrug. “Mary only knows because she was there.” Sherlock hummed but didn’t say anything as Jo leaned her weight against him. When Jo didn’t show any sign of wanting to get up any time soon, Sherlock shifted them until he was leaning back against the arm of the couch with Jo between his legs and leaning back against his chest with his arms wrapped around her waist. They sat like that for a long time before Jo spoke again.

“You know,” she said quietly, mumbling sleepily and playing with his fingers. “You remind me of him.” Sherlock stiffened, his heart stuttering in his chest. Jo continued, tilting her head back to look up at him. “Not the bad parts, obviously, but there were things about him that I liked. I do have a type.”

He cleared his throat, trying not to show how terrified he was by this line of conversation. “And what type is that?”

“Oh you know,” she said, smiling at him. “Brilliant, larger than life, exciting; all the things I love about you.”

He smiled, looking just a bit smug. “So you’re saying that your type is basically me.”

“Exactly,” she replied brightly, pleased that he was understanding. “Sometimes I think that I’ve been looking for you my entire life.” She placed a clumsy kiss of his jaw line before closing her eyes sleepily.

“Come on,” he said, having to swallow around an unexpected lump in his throat. “Let’s get you to bed. You know you won’t be happy in the morning if you fall asleep out here.

She nodded and began to push herself to her feet. “Alright, but I have to put out the fire first.”

“Don’t worry about the fire,” he answered, standing up as well. “I’ll take care of it. You just go to bed, and I’ll be in in a minute.” She hummed in agreement and leaned up for another sleepy kiss before stumbling into their bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I just wanted to thank everyone for reading this; it makes me so happy to know that people like it. I'd love to hear from you, either here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com)


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock was definitely glad that he had decided to take this case. He had been skeptical when Lestrade first called — it seemed pretty straight forward: a tourist had gotten drunk, wandered down to an area, and was then caught up in a mugging that had gone horribly wrong — but it had been almost two weeks since his last case, and he was getting a bit desperate. The case turned out to be infinitely more interesting than Lestrade had made it out to be; mostly because the DI was incapable of seeing the actual facts of the case, instead focusing his attention on the façade that the murder had set up in an, unfortunately successful, attempt to mislead the police. He finished his initial examination of the corpse and stood up, deciding to wait until a bit later to reveal that he had discovered that the victim had actually been a native of London and not a tourist as had been originally supposed.

“Jo, could you tell me what you think,” he said, managing to make it sound simultaneously like a request and an order. The doctor nodded and stepped forward to take his place, wincing when she had to take her hands out of her pockets. Sherlock had been too preoccupied with what he was doing to notice how cold it was, but now that he had a moment to notice his surroundings, even he couldn’t deny that a dock by the Thames on an early December morning wasn’t exactly pleasant.

A few minutes later Jo stood up, brushing the dust off her knees. “Time of death was less than three hours ago and was, unsurprisingly, caused by one of these three stab wounds,” she gestured to the three largest wounds on the man’s chest. “I’d have to do an actual autopsy to be more specific than that. What is interesting, is that while he does reek of booze, I don’t think he actually drank anything. Also, his wounds aren’t exactly typical of a mugging; he has more defensive wounds than I would have expected, and muggers don’t tend to stick around long enough to inflict ten stab wounds; they tend to just do what’s necessary to get away.” He nodded, flashing his partner a quick half smile before retreating back into his mind palace, muttering deductions to himself.

“So not a mugging then, but someone obviously wanted to make it look like a mugging. But why stage a mugging? If you wanted to hide the body, why not just dump it in the Thames? He must of been interrupted. But who gets interrupted and then has time to stage a mugging? Oh!”

Jo, who was the only one close enough to hear his quiet mutterings, raised her eyebrows at him. “Have you figured it out then?”

“Just about,” he answered in a whisper. “But don’t say anything. This could get a bit interesting.” She nodded to show that she understood but gave no other reaction.

Sherlock turned his body so that he could subtly examine the PC who had reported finding the body. He had his coat zipped all of the way up, which wasn’t unexpected considering the temperature, but he wasn’t wearing gloves, instead attempting, rather poorly, to cover his hands with sleeves; upon closer inspection, he could see a bit of blood under the man’s fingernails, abrasions on his knuckles, and pink skin that had been recently scrubbed clean. When coupled with the bruise forming on the PC’s cheek, Sherlock was confident that there was enough evidence to support his theory of what had happened. He was still trying to figure out the best way to make his reveal without causing a potentially dangerous scene when the PC — Sherlock either hadn’t caught his name or hadn’t cared enough at the time to remember it — noticed him looking and panicked, pushing the nearest person — who just so happened to be Anderson — into the river in an attempt to create enough of a diversion for him to escape. Unfortunately for him, Lestrade was standing directly behind him and was able to apprehend him with almost no effort at all. Sherlock had already started to put the case out of his mind and was starting to decide where he and Jo should go for breakfast when he was startled back into the present by the sound of Donovan shrieking.

“Someone help him! He can’t swim!”

Sherlock was so preoccupied with watching Anderson flail helplessly as the swift current carried him downstream that he didn’t notice what Jo was doing until she shoved her jumper and jacket into his arms before toeing off her shoes and diving into the frigid water. He clung to the bundle of clothing like a life line as he watched in absolute terror as his doctor used swift, firm strokes to swim towards the drowning forensics officer.

Jo reached the flailing man just as he was no longer able to keep his head above water. She quickly stripped him of the blue suit that was weighing him down and floated him on his back, securing him into position by draping her arm across the chest and gripping him under the armpit. After a quick order to stop struggling, she began to tow him to the nearest bank, which happened to be one opposite to where they had started. Finally they reached the edge of the river and she struggled to pull him ashore before collapsing. She fumblingly extricated him from his sopping jacket and shirt so that they could press skin to skin and share body heat. She commandeered coats from a few gaping bystanders and used them as blankets, trying to seal in as much heat as possible until the ambulance arrived.

“You saved my life,” Anderson said, managing to sound awed even as his teeth were chattering violently.

Jo rolled her eyes even as she clenched her jaw in an attempt to keep her teeth from clattering against each other. “I am actually a doctor. It’s my job.”

“But you hate me,” he pushed, shivering uncontrollably.

She managed a sigh this time. “I don’t hate you — I think you’re unprofessional and a complete arse — but I don’t hate you. And even if I did, I wouldn’t just let you die; I took an oath.” Anderson just hummed, not bothering to try to continue the conversation. Jo breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the sirens in the distance.

Sherlock didn’t find his way across the river until Jo was sitting in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a shock blanket and wearing a pair of borrowed scrub bottoms. The van holding Anderson had already left for the hospital, but Jo was trying to convince her paramedics that she was fine to go home — after all, she was a doctor and had a flatmate that would happily look after her. He also had the rest of her clothes, which he thrust at her when he finally arrived, looking too pale to be healthy with his lips pressed tightly together in a thin line. She smiled at him in thanks and shrugged of the blanket so she could pull her jumper over her head. She fumbled with the jacket, her fingers still too cold to be of much use, so Sherlock took over, zipping it up to her chin. She had lost her gloves at some point, so he took her hands in his, rubbing them together to generate friction.

He wouldn’t look directly at her, instead focusing intently on their hands. “What the hell were you thinking, Jo?”

“That I’m glad I decided to put my phone in my jacket pocket when we left this morning,” she answered with a smile, hoping to insert some levity into the situation. Sherlock finally looked up, glaring at her, so she continued more seriously. “Sherlock, he was drowning. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just stand there and let him die.”

The detective sighed and dropped his gaze back down to their hands again. “But what if you had died instead? What if something had happened and your body got swept down river and we were never able to find it? I can’t think of a single person that would be worth losing you over, and Anderson certainly isn’t. I don’t know what I would do if you died; I don’t think I could handle it.”

“Sherlock I’m fine,” she said, pulling one of her hands free so that she could use it to cup his cheek, rubbing her thumb gently against the ridge of his cheek bone. “I promise I’m fine. This is what I’m trained to do; I can show you my certificate and everything. Our lives are always going to be danger, and you know that neither of us would have it any other way; it doesn’t do anyone any good for us to sit around asking ‘what ifs.’ Now, if you could please take me home, I’m dying for a really long, really hot shower, and a bath, and food would be good too. Can we please go home?”

He nodded, finally giving her a small smile. “Alright, let’s go find a cab.” She grinned at him and got shakily to her feet. He quickly pulled off his own coat and wrapped it snuggly around her shoulders; he supported her with an arm around her waist as they walked towards the main road.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Jo woke up at four the next morning with tears in her eyes. Her shoulder was not pleased with her December swim in the Thames and was making it’s displeasure known with searing pain. Sherlock got up and brought her ibuprofen and a heating pad, kindly avoiding saying that Anderson wasn’t worth that much pain; he did, however, think it very hard. She finally got up around seven, letting Sherlock help her into a pair of sweatpants and a vest-top. She moved to the sofa, sitting very still and trying not to vomit up the tea he had made her; she refused to eat anything, the mere thought of food making her stomach turn. Sherlock played his violin for her, which was nice, and, when he finished, he didn’t even complain about her telly choices, which mostly consisted of nature documentaries about whales. After a few hours, the pain had died down and she was even starting to feel a bit peckish. Unfortunately, they didn’t have anything more than the heels of a loaf of bread and a bit of butter (and far too many body parts than was probably necessary); they were also almost out of ibuprofen. Sherlock offered to go down to the shops, and Jo sincerely wondered if she’d ever loved him more.

Sherlock had been gone for a while when Jo heard someone ring the doorbell. She listened as Mrs. Hudson answered it, talking softly with whoever decided to visit, and felt extremely grateful that she didn’t have to try and brave the stairs. Next came her landlady’s distinctive tread on the stairs, coupled with the heavier steps of the stranger’s. They stopped right in front of the door to 221b for another quiet conversation; Jo couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she got the feeling the seemingly harmless elderly woman was being disconcertingly threatening again. There was a quiet knock on the door and then she entered, alone.

“Hello dear,” Mrs. Hudson opened quietly. “I don’t mean to disturb you, but there’s a man who’s here to see you; he says his name is Mike Anderson. I can tell him that he has to come back later if you’re not feeling up to it.”

She nodded, carefully levering herself to her feet. “It’s fine, thank you Mrs. Hudson. He shouldn’t be here for long, and I’m perfectly capable of kicking him out myself if he overstays his welcome.”

“Alright,” she answered with a small smile that was just slightly indulgent. “I’ll tell him he can come in now.” Anderson walked through the door moments later, looking pale and more than a bit sheepish.

Jo greeted him with a smile. “Hello. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to thank you,” he answered haltingly. “For what you did yesterday.”

She shook her head, holding her injured arm close to her body. “Don’t mention it; I told you — I was just doing my job.”

“You jumped into the Thames, in December,” he said, sounding a bit more forceful and finally looking at her instead of his feet. “I don’t imagine that there’s a lot of doctors who would do that. Especially not after I’ve been so awful to you and your colleague.”

She shrugged her good shoulder. “I don’t hold grudges.” Just then Sherlock got home, slamming the door behind him. Anderson jumped at the noise, accidentally bumping into Jo in the process. She cried out, clutching at her shoulder. He stared at her in horror as she doubled over in pain, and Sherlock burst through the door, looking more than a little panicked.

“It’s fine,” she said a bit breathlessly, reassuring both of them. “It was an accident, and I’m just a bit sore. There’s no harm done.” Sherlock nodded slowly, glaring at Anderson, and then took the shopping bags into the kitchen, making as much noise as possible as he put the groceries away, obviously trying to telegraph his displeasure at their visitor.

Mike was looking at her as if she might break. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she answered, forcing another smile. “I really am fine.” She caught him staring at the scar that was just visible under her vest and answered the question she knew he was thinking. “I got shot in Afghanistan. It normally doesn’t bother me, but swimming arm over arm in freezing water is probably on the list of things I’m not really supposed to do anymore. But it’ll be as good as new in a couple days.”

He nodded, giving the scar one last look before deciding to change the subject. “I’m not sure how, I was only there over night, but Sherlock sent me a card.”

The smile fell off Jo’s face and she shook her head. “He was joking; whatever it was that he said, I promise that it was meant to be a joke.”

“I know,” he answered, smiling. “He gave me a certificate for swim lessons.”

There was a moment of silence before Jo burst out laughing. She knew that it probably wasn’t all that funny, but she couldn’t help it. She covered her face with her free hand in an attempt to stifle her laughter. After a moment Anderson joined in, reaching out to clasp her uninjured arm. She leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder. When Sherlock came in and saw them giggling and leaning against each other, he gave them a look that clearly said that he thought that they had lost their minds.

“You bought him swimming lessons,” Jo said, answering her friend’s unspoken question.

He nodded, still looking confused but smiling a bit. “Yes I did. It’s not quite that funny though.”

“Probably not,” she agreed, finally straightening up. “But it’s good to laugh.”

He smiled fondly, his eyes softening as he looked at her. “Well I’m glad that it amused you then.”

They had been staring at each other for longer than either of them had realized when Anderson gasped. “Oh my god, you two really are shagging.”

Sherlock froze, his pale skin growing even paler, and Jo turned back to their guest with a smile that looked only slightly forced. “Come on Mike, I’ll walk you out.” The forensic tech nodded dumbly and let the woman lead him out of the flat and down the stairs. Neither of them said anything until they reached the front door and Jo stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Thanks for coming by,” she said with a smile. “It was good to see that you were okay.”

Anderson gaped at her. “Are we really not going to talk about this at all?”

“What would you like to talk about?” She asked pleasantly, doing her best to sound reasonable.

He glared at her, obviously exasperated. “Aren’t you going to deny it, or ask me not to tell, or threaten me to keep my mouth shut, or something?”

“Would that actually do any good?” She countered. She sighed and then continued. “I’m not going to waste my time or my dignity begging you to keep this to yourself if you’re not going to listen.”

He paused and looked at her appraisingly before asking. “Why don’t you want anyone to know?”

“Why do you think?” She replied, beginning to sound genuinely agitated. “Sherlock loves what he does and he’s damn good at it. He’s had to work really hard to even get a chance at doing what he wants to do, and even after becoming as successful as he is, his colleagues still call him ‘Freak’ more often than they call him by name. What possible reason could we have for not wanting to give people any more ammunition to use against him? And that’s not even considering the fact that a crazy person literally made him jump off a building to save my life, and that was when we were just friends.”

“How long have you two been together?” He asked, sounding thoughtful.

She sighed, the fight draining out of her and leaving her tired. “Since he got back.”

“And does he love you?” He continued, avoiding making direct eye contact.

She nodded and answered him simply. “Yes, he does; very much.”

“How can you be sure?” He questioned cautiously, afraid to upset her again. “You’ve seen how well he can act when he wants something. How can you know that he’s really being sincere?”

Jo sighed, trying to come up with a way to describe it to someone on the outside. “I can tell the difference. He’s different when he’s shamming, more sure of what he’s doing. When they’re sincere, strong emotions tend to knock him off balance; he’s more awkward, almost bumbling. He makes mistakes when he’s being sincere; he can’t afford to make those mistakes when he’s faking.”

Anderson nodded and took a deep breath, finally meeting her eyes. “I won’t tell anyone about you two, I promise.”

She studied him for a moment, trying to discern whether or not he was lying, before breaking out into a relieved smile. “Thank you, Mike; I really appreciate that.”

He just nodded, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Well I should be going now. I promised I’d meet my wife for lunch.”

Jo nodded and wished him well before shutting the door firmly behind him and making her way back upstairs. Her shoulder was aching again and she was dreading the thought of what kind of mood Anderson’s visit and subsequent revelation had put Sherlock in. She wasn’t sure that she was up for comforting her friend just then, but she knew that if he needed it, she wouldn’t be able to sit back and let him suffer alone. By the time she made it back to their shared flat, she had convinced herself that she was going to find Sherlock either curled up on the sofa or locked in his room, so she was pleasantly surprised to find him in the kitchen, making lunch.

She walked up behind him and wrapped her good arm around his waist. “Mmm, that smells good.”

Sherlock hummed but didn’t say anything, focused entirely on what he was doing in an obvious attempt not to think about what had just happened.

She sighed and pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck. “Anderson says that he won’t tell anyone about us.”

“Do you believe him?” He asked quietly, his jaw tense.

Jo shrugged, sighing again. “He seemed sincere to me, but I can’t always tell. Either way, we’ll get through it together; I’m not going anywhere.” The detective finally turned around in her arms and smiled down at her; after placing a kiss on her forehead, he looked at her critically.

“Your shoulder is bothering you again,” he said with a frown. “Go sit on the sofa and I’ll bring you some ibuprofen with your lunch.”

“Yes dear,” she answered cheekily, going up on her tip toes for another kiss before doing as she was told.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

There wasn’t another case for a week and a half. Unlike what usually happened when there was a lull between cases, Sherlock didn’t seem restless or bored at all. In fact, he didn’t seem at all eager to get another case, and with every passing day Jo became more concerned that he was going to suggest moving to another city entirely in order to avoid having to face the situation with Anderson. When Lestrade finally did show up with another case, literally bringing it to their door after having his calls and texts repeatedly ignored, the consulting detective, in a completely unprecedented move, hesitated in the face of a case that looked truly fascinating; he even went so far as to ask who was working forensics, something he hadn’t done since Jo had come along. When it looked like Sherlock was seriously going to turn down a case rather than face Anderson again, Jo stepped in, grabbing his coat and pushing him out the door before he had the chance to come up with a good reason for them not to go.

The cab ride to the crime scene was absolutely silent, and not in the usual way, buzzing with pre-case excitement. This silence was oppressive, and if things turned out as horribly as Sherlock obviously feared they might, then Jo didn’t know what she’d do. She’d probably start looking for reasonably priced flats in some other major city; she spent the rest of the cab ride trying to remember which languages Sherlock was actually fluent in and which ones he just bluffed his way through, so that she knew which countries to cross of her list of possible relocation sites.

The case was just as interesting as Lestrade had advertised, and Anderson, thankfully, didn’t say a single word to either Sherlock or Jo. In fact, he didn’t even look at them and seemed to be pretending that they didn’t exist at all, which was just fine as far as Jo was concerned. Soon Sherlock was completely absorbed in the case, muttering deductions to himself and Jo, flitting around the crime scene, and, in general, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who was surrounded by a dismembered corpse. Jo loved it. After less than fifteen minutes, Sherlock announced that they were leaving and the pair started heading for the nearest major road, arguing about whether or not they should just use public transit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, another week has passed and I am continually amazed that anyone at all likes this story that I wrote in a caffeine fueled month long haze while my family looked at me like I was crazy. I love hearing from you either in comments here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com)
> 
> As always thanks for reading and I hope you liked it.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock and Jo were finally wrapping up a smuggling case that they had been working on for three weeks straight. It had been one of their longest cases ever, and it just so happened to coincide with Jo’s final preparations for a clinic opening she was doing in Peru. It was the second international project the WPC was doing since what the doctor had taken to calling The African Incident, but everyone was still more than a little stressed out about the whole thing. Jo hadn’t even been in their flat in four days, and she wasn’t sure how long it had been for Sherlock. All in all, February had consisted of far too little food, even less sleep, and more adrenaline than any sane person would enjoy; the case had been fantastic though, and even if she had had a hell of a time balancing her actual job with her detective duties, Jo was inclined to say that it was worth it. Still, both she and Sherlock had lost more weight than was healthy; she had already decided to up his required meals from one to two a day — one and a half at the very least.

They had spent most of the case working with DI Gregson, whom they hadn’t worked with before and who seemed to think that Sherlock’s mission in life was to make his more difficult; however, in the last week they managed to uncover a series of murders committed by the ring, which had allowed them to bring in Lestrade, who was infinitely easier to work with. Now it was early on the morning before Jo had to leave for Peru, and they were watching the sunrise from inside an abandoned building as they staked out what Sherlock was sure was the smuggler’s base of operations. Jo had already texted Lestrade, so all they had to do was wait and all of their hard work would finally pay off. It was freezing, and the doctor was trying to keep her mind off of how cold she really was when a thought occurred to her.

“Do you know what day it is?” She asked, sounding obviously amused.

Sherlock frowned, his blood shot eyes flitting back and forth as he thought. “Um, Tuesday, I think.”

“Actually, it’s Sunday,” she replied laughingly. “But that’s not what I meant. It’s our anniversary.”

The detective paled, his expression a cross between panic and pleased surprise. Unfortunately, she never got to hear what his response to that was going to be because they were interrupted by the sound of the smugglers raiding the building. Knowing that they were completely outnumbered, the pair ran, trying to get out of the building without being seen; what they didn’t know was that the smugglers had left a few men outside to watch the exits. Jo was caught and quickly incapacitated, but Sherlock manged to get away.

Jo was brought to the basement of the warehouse they had been watching, stripped down to just her trousers and undershirt, and tied to a chair; they had checked her remaining pockets thoroughly and had even taken her shoes — although what they thought that was going to accomplish, she didn’t know. They had neither blindfolded nor gagged her, which she took to be a bad sign, especially considering that they had shown no compunctions about murdering people who got in their way in the past. She sat in the dark, trying not to shiver and hoping that Lestrade and Sherlock got there before it was too late.

It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness once the door opened, but once they did her heart sank. She recognized the man who entered as one of the higher ups in the organization; he was ambitious and reckless, which didn’t exactly bode well for her. His skin was mottled and scarred and there was a faded tattoo running up his neck. She tried her best to look suitably frightened in hopes that he wouldn’t know who she was; it wasn’t that difficult.

“Who are you?” He asked gruffly, trying to make himself as intimidating as possible.

She shook her head frantically. “No one, I swear. I’m no one.” She tried to summon up some tears; Sherlock had always been better at crying on command, but she thought that she managed alright this time.

“What were you doing here?” He pressed angrily.

She let out a gasping sob. “My boyfriend and I were looking for a place to, you know.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You were going to shag your boyfriend in an abandoned warehouse in February?”

“We were trying to be adventurous!” She wailed, hoping that she sounded believable. It wasn’t the best lie, but she hadn’t been able to come up with anything else.

He let his eyes rake up and down her body in a way that made her skin crawl. “We found you wearing a lot of clothes for someone about to fuck.”

“It’s cold,” she complained. “We were working up to it!”

He eyed her for another few moment before breaking out into cruel laughter. “Well your lover boy ran pretty fast when we came along. He seems like a real knight in shining armor.”

She didn’t have an answer to that and just let her eyes fall to the floor.

He laughed again. “Now you just sit tight while I figure out what we’re going to do with you.” He turned and walked away, the door slamming behind him.

The silence was stifling, and Jo’s heart was pounding so hard she felt sick. She knew that they were going to kill her, hopefully quickly, unless help came first. The adrenaline left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she couldn’t get enough saliva together to swallow properly. She tested the strength of her bonds yet again, even though she knew that there was no way she was going to be able to free herself.

A few minutes later Jo heard footsteps in the corridor outside. She held her breath as the door opened, determined that if she was going to die, then she was going to do so with as much dignity as she could muster. She blinked at the bright light that streamed into the room, and when her eyes finally adjusted all of the air rushed out of her lungs.

Sherlock ran forward, dropping to his knees behind her and freeing her arms. She rubbed at her wrists as he released her ankles, trying to get her blood circulation to return to normal. He helped her stand up and wrapped his coat around her shoulders before taking over the task of rubbing at her wrists. He still hadn’t said anything, and he had gone pale; as the seconds ticked by Jo began to wonder if he was in shock.

She caught his hands in her own. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

“Am I alright?” He scoffed. “You’re the one who’s been kidnapped and tied to a chair. I should be asking you that.”

She sighed, rubbing their hands together. “You’re shaking, love. And your hands are so cold. I think you might be in shock.”

“I’m fine,” he promised, willing himself steady. “I’m just glad that you’re okay.”

She smiled. “I really am fine. Except now I have to replace my phone for the third time in the past year, and I really liked those shoes.”

“Happy anniversary,” he replied, obviously holding back a laugh.

Jo laughed. “Happy anniversary.” They fell silent, just looking at each other and thinking about everything that had happened in the past year. After a few moments Sherlock cleared his throat and brought them back to the present.

“Well, if you’re sure that you don’t need to see a paramedic or anything,” he said, trying to tame his expression back into something appropriate for the aftermath of a kidnapping, “then we can leave. I’ll text Lestrade and tell him we’ll come in and give our statements tomorrow before you leave.”

She nodded. “Works for me.” She looked down at her bare feet and frowned, trying to figure out how she was going to get from where they were to a cab without shoes.

“I’ll carry you,” he announced, answering her unspoken question. “Get on my back.” He turned around and bent his knees, trying to get low enough that she wouldn’t have a problem getting into position. Knowing that she had little hope of jumping high enough to successfully climb on his back, Jo pulled the chair over and stood on that before climbing on. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist and did her best not to choke him.

“Are you sure about this?” She asked as he began to move. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He rolled his eyes, and even though she couldn’t see his face, she could feel the action in the set of his shoulders. “You’re not going to hurt me. You’re not that heavy.” Jo just hummed, resting her chin on his shoulder and settling in for the ride.

A few minutes later Sherlock rolled his shoulders, jostling his passenger enough to make her sit up straighter. “Don’t fall asleep; you can sleep when we get home.”

“No I can’t,” she complained, resting her head on his shoulder again. “I have to pack, and at least tidy up the flat, and go shopping so that you have food to eat while I’m gone — you’ve lost at least half a stone since this case started, so you’re eating two meals a day while I’m in Peru, and I don’t want to hear any whining about it. You didn’t have any weight to lose before.”

He sighed. “You’ve lost just as much weight as I have, and it’s not like you had a lot of excess to begin with either.”

“Which is why I’ll be putting myself back on a regular meal schedule,” she answered quickly. “I just wish I didn’t have to leave so soon; I’d like to be able to monitor your progress myself.”

He sighed again, but this time it sounded fond instead of exasperated. “You worry too much; I’ll be fine, and I promise to send you daily updates on my weight if it will make you feel better.”

She chuckled. “I might just take you up on that offer. But I still have to find food that you’ll not only eat, but will be able to cook. You know your culinary skills aren’t exactly stellar, and you’ll get bored if you have to spend three weeks eating only what you can cook entirely by yourself.”

“I am actually capable of doing the shopping, you know,” he said, sounding as if he was working up to being offended. “I’m not completely incompetent.”

She placed a placating kiss on his cheek. “I know you’re not; I just don’t like to leave you with nothing in the flat. I feel bad enough about leaving you for several weeks at a time without feeling guilty about not making sure you’re properly taken care of on top of it.”

“It’s your job,” he replied, giving her legs a comforting squeeze. “I don’t want you to feel guilty about your career. I wouldn’t want to keep you from doing something you love.” She just hummed, shrugging and falling silent again.

A few moments later Sherlock continued. “And I can clean the flat after you’re gone. I’ll even help with the shopping today.”

“That’d be great,” she said, smiling. “At this rate we might even have time for anniversary sex.”

He chuckled as they finally made it out onto the main street. “Anniversary sex is definitely a goal worth working towards.” She laughed as he set about trying to find a taxi as quickly as possible.

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That evening, after they had showered, taken a short nap, cleaned the flat, gone shopping, and got Jo packed and ready for Peru, Sherlock called Angelo and convinced him to let them carry out their meal. While he was out picking up their dinner, Jo went downstairs and retrieved her gift from Mrs. Hudson, who had been keeping it safe for her so that Sherlock wouldn’t accidentally come across it in the flat. She put it in their room, wanting to wait until after dinner to give it to him. She wasn’t really expecting to get anything in return; they had been beyond busy, and gifts had never really been Sherlock’s strong suit.

Dinner was, as expected, lovely. They lingered as long as they could, and Jo was pleasantly surprised to find out that Angelo had included one of his famous chocolate cakes. They both ate more than they had originally planned on eating, but Jo wrote it off as an indulgence on a special occasion. Sherlock insisted on clearing the dishes, which was a pleasant surprise; while he was in the kitchen, she retrieved her gift from their room. She sat on the sofa with butterflies in her stomach, terrified that Sherlock wasn’t going to like what she had gotten him.

When Sherlock came back into the room with a package wrapped in shiny silver paper, Jo’s face lit up. “You bought me a present!”

“Of course I did,” he answered, the corners of his mouth turning up. “That is what one does on anniversaries.”

She motioned him over, still grinning. “Come on, sit down. You can open yours first.” He did as she asked, setting his gift for her on the cushion beside him before taking the package she was offering him. He took note of the clean corners and the precise way that she had taped down the dark green paper. The box was medium sized and fairly thin, but heavier than he had expected. He carefully removed the paper, making sure that it was perfectly preserved. Jo held her breath as he lifted the lid off, resting the bottom on his lap. He carefully lifted the yellowed manuscripts out of the box and his breath caught in his throat when he saw the handwritten violin sheet music.

“Jo, where did you find these?” He asked breathlessly, barely taking his eyes off the pages in front of him.

She shrugged. “Mary knew a guy who was able to get them. I mean, they’re not pieces that most people would recognize; hell, I wouldn’t recognize them. But I know that you really like him, and I thought that they might make an interesting gift.”

“Like him?” he replied incredulously. “Benjamin Godard is my favorite composer. Thank you, really.”

She smiled. “I’m glad you like it. Shall I open mine now?”

Sherlock carefully set his gift on the table and hesitantly handed Jo hers. “If you don’t like it, I can get you something else.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” she assured him with a smile. She didn’t pay nearly as much attention to the wrapping paper; although she could see that he had struggled a bit with the wrapping job. She didn’t bother trying to save the paper and set the box on her lap as she took the top off. Inside was a thick journal bound with fine leather with high quality lined paper inside; her name was engraved on the bottom right hand corner of the front cover. Also in the box was a set of pens that looked far more expensive than any pen had a right to be.

“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly, running her fingers over the leather. She had stopped writing her blog after Sherlock jumped, and she hadn’t started it back up again when he had returned; it had proven itself to be too much of a liability to be worth it. She still wrote down their cases in various notebooks that she kept hidden in the upstairs bedroom. She knew that Sherlock was aware that she had continued writing in private, but she never expected him to even acknowledge it, let alone encourage the activity.

He grinned. “I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t really sure what else to get you.”

Jo was about to thank him again when she was cut off by yawning.

Sherlock chuckled. “Come on, let’s go to bed. We’ve got to get up early tomorrow anyway.” Jo agreed, thrilled at the thought of a full night’s sleep next to her partner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you for reading this. I'd love to hear from you either here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com)


	18. Chapter 18

The clinic in Peru ran well. It had been well planned, and Jo only had to work out a few minor bugs in the system, which was to be expected with any clinic opening. From her personal perspective, however, it was awful. She got there already feeling exhausted from everything that had led up to the trip, and a week in a half in she started feeling sick. At first she thought she had contracted food poisoning or something similar, but when the symptoms didn’t abate she began to get a little worried. Still, she showed no signs of being contagious, and since most of her duties were administrative anyway, she pushed through and continued working.

Sherlock emailed her multiple times a day, and though she loved reading each one, she was only able to send him one reply a day. They managed to skype a couple of times a week, and even though Jo tried not to let on how bad she really felt, she could tell that he was even more worried about her than he usually was when she was gone. She tried to pass off how she felt on the humidity — she had learned how to deal with heat in Afghanistan, but the humidity was awful — but she wasn’t quite sure how well that worked.

By the time that she and her team were heading back to England, Jo was beyond ready to be back home. The late March weather in London felt wonderful, and stepping outside into the cool rain was refreshing. Sherlock met her at the airport, and as soon as they saw each other she could see him eying her up and down and calculating just how much weight she had lost. They went home and even though she knew he was trying to be subtle, Jo could feel Sherlock watching her carefully.

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Jo had been back in London for three days and she was still trying to get her life back in order. Sherlock had got her a new phone while she was gone, which was undeniably helpful — she rarely saw eye to eye with her phone company. She still had a whole list of things to do, including cleaning the flat with a thoroughness that Sherlock thought was truly unnecessary and catching up on an appalling about of emails. Having to catch up on her life after three weeks away was annoying, but by far the worse thing was how much she had missed Sherlock while she was gone. When they had gotten together she had known that she would miss him while she was gone, but she had expected that it would get easier with time. Now it was a year later, and after four trips it was getting harder to leave instead of easier. When she had first taken the job, it had seemed like the perfect opportunity for her to get away from London and everything that had happened there, but now she no longer wanted to get away and what had felt like a welcome escape was now a chore. She knew that something had to change; she just wasn’t sure what to do about it.

She was thinking about all of this and doing the dishes when her mobile rang with a call from her doctor. She had had an appointment the day she got back from Peru for two reasons. First because of how sick she had felt in Peru: she had actually lost even more weight over her trip, which was worrying. And second because her birth control pills — which she had taken to keeping in her coat pocket during the hectic insanity that was the month of February — had been lost during her kidnapping. She hadn’t had the time to get her new prescription before she left, so she had gone too long without it to start it back up again without running a few tests; she would also have to wait another three months for it to become effective again. Sherlock had been understanding about the situation and didn’t seem to be bothered by it at all, which was nice. She had made her appointment for the day she had got back and was now expecting the call telling her that she could fill her prescription.

She answered her mobile with a smile, eager to cross another thing off her list, but it was obvious that the doctor on the other end wasn’t smiling. Her heart sank as she quickly started running through everything that her symptoms could point to. Even with all of her training and experience, her doctor’s diagnosis still came as a complete shock. She held it together as well as she could as she made another appointment for the next week. After ringing off, she stood in her kitchen, looking completely lost. She was shaking violently, and after a minute or two of trying to get herself under control she had to run for the bathroom to vomit. She came back into the kitchen feeling a bit more calm, and, for lack of anything else to do, she went back to finishing the dishes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry I missed last week, and that this was a short chapter that ended on a cliff hanger. Anyway, I hope you liked it and feel free to leave a comment either here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com). Thanks for reading!


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock was undeniably worried about his friend. Jo usually lost a bit of weight while she was away on an international project, but the weight she had lost while in Peru was excessive; when coupled with the weight she had lost before she had even left London, the result was alarming. She had been a bit underweight when they had first moved in together, but she had quickly gained it back with regular meals. He knew that Mary worried about her weight, making sure that they ate together at least once a week and regularly assessing whether or not she had gained or lost weight when they saw each other; the fact that someone who had known Jo for as long as Mary had was monitoring her weight and eating habits with a subtlety that spoke of long practice was worrying.

He had spent the day at his favorite lab in Bart’s, working on some experiments that he was unable to perform with the equipment he had back at Baker Street. Mike Stamford dropped by to see what he was working on — he was always asked intelligent questions and it was nice to have someone who was honestly interested in what he was doing. While they were talking, Mike mentioned a new restaurant that he and is wife had really enjoyed. As soon as the doctor had left, Sherlock called the restaurant and managed to get a reservation for that evening. He texted Jo and was pleased when she seemed excited about the date. He spent the rest of the day hoping that he would finally get to see her eat a full meal, something which hadn’t happened since she had returned from Peru.

Sherlock got home later than he had expected, but they still had more than enough time to make their reservation on time. He called out to Jo that he was going to quickly get dressed, breezing into their room without even seeing his friend. He put on one of his best suits and the deep purple shirt that he knew Jo enjoyed. When he finished, he found Jo in the kitchen. She was dressed for dinner and was sitting quietly at the table. Her hands were resting on the tabletop, but when Sherlock came into the room she moved them to her lap, obviously in an attempt to hide how badly they were shaking. She was visibly upset and nervous about telling him whatever it was that was wrong, which made him nervous. He knew that she had been expecting a call from her doctor at some point during the day, and he was terrified that she had gotten bad news.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, hating that he wasn’t able to keep his voice steady. He knew that he should sit down in order to put them on the same level, but he was far too tense to get off his feet. He curled his fingers around the back of the chair in front of him, gripping until his knuckles were white.

Jo frowned and licked her lips before speaking. “Well you know that I haven’t really been feeling well, and when I went to the doctor they ran a few tests. I got the results today, and it turns out that I’m pregnant.

“February was so hectic; we were hardly home, and I probably missed a pill or two. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” He said, feeling as if all of the air had been knocked out of his lungs. “Oh. Are you sure?”

She huffed out something that was almost a laugh. “Pretty sure; it’s a fairly accurate test, and a false positive would indicate that something else was significantly wrong. I have an appointment next week to check everything.”

“Okay,” he said, desperately reaching for anything to say. “Do you know what you want to do with it?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “I have no idea; I really don’t. This wasn’t something I planned on happening; I thought I had taken precautions against this. What do you think?”

“I have to do research,” he answered, sounding distinctly panicked. “Um, I have to do research.” After a shaky nod he turned and walked briskly out of the room, practically running.

Jo closed her eyes, and fought back tears as she heard both doors slam. She had no idea what she was going to do, but doing it without Sherlock was unthinkable. She had become so used to her partner having her back in everything that being left alone in this felt gut-wrenchingly surreal. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn’t realize that Sherlock was returning until he ran back into the room with a heaving chest and stopped short.

“That was the wrong answer,” he said, sounding out of breath from running. “I’m sorry. Can I try that again?” Jo nodded dumbly and he crossed the distance between them, drawing her out of her seat and pulling her into his arms.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised, still holding her. “We’ll be alright.” Jo sighed and leaned into his embrace. She had no idea what to say, but she was happy to stay where she was for as long as possible, especially since Sherlock no longer showed any signs of wanting to be anywhere else.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

The restaurant was more high end than they normally went to, especially on such short notice. The dining room was fairly full, and Sherlock was actually surprised that he had managed to get them a table. The atmosphere was nice, though, very calming, which was definitely what they were looking for after the bombshell from earlier. Jo looked completely shell-shocked; she was pale with a vacant stare, but at least she no longer looked sick like she had when Sherlock had first seen her in the kitchen.

They ordered, Jo seeming rather indecisive about what she wanted, which was a bit abnormal for her. She participated in the conversation enough that it wasn’t awkward, but she was definitely quieter than usual and spent most of her effort encouraging him to keep talking. He told her about his experiments that day — which, although not typical dinner conversation, she seemed genuinely interested in. By the time their main course was served, she had got him telling her about one of his most interesting early cases. He was so involved in his story that it took him almost two minutes to realize that her salmon had been burned to the point of inedibility.

“You can’t eat that,” he said, turning to try and call a waiter over.

Jo stopped him by placing a hand on his arm. “Sherlock, it’s fine, really. Please don’t cause a scene.”

“I’m not causing a scene,” he said, turning back to look at her. “But they need to serve you something that you can actually eat. That’s completely burnt.”

She sighed, beginning to look worried. “It’s fine; I can cut off the black parts. I’m not really that hungry anyway; I don’t need it.”

“It’s not fine,” he insisted. “If you wanted a ruined piece of fish, then you would have asked me to cook it for you. And you do need it. You’ve lost nearly nine kilos in under two months; that’s not healthy, love. You made me eat two meals a day while you were gone to make up for what I lost during that smuggling case, but I don’t think you even managed one. You’re worrying me. So, please, let me get you a dinner that you can actually eat. I promise that I’ll be perfectly polite.”

Jo nodded hesitantly, looking worried as he called over their waitress. Sherlock made a point to be as courteous as possible, not wanting to upset his date. The waitress was very apologetic and the replacement meal was out shortly. Jo relaxed a bit once she saw that the new salmon had been done perfectly. Unfortunately, she seemed even quieter than before, and the conversation quickly fell flat.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, trying to sound as non-confrontational as possible; his friend seemed more skittish than he had ever seen her, and he didn’t want to scare her into not talking at all. He had never really had to worry about not intimidating her before — which was actually one of the reasons that had become such good friends so quickly — and to have to actively avoid it after so long together was disturbing to say the least.

Jo sighed, staring down at her plate. “I’m just worried, scared actually. I’ve always been so careful about this, and I didn’t expect that we’d have to make this decision. I can’t stop thinking about it. I mean, it was my responsibility to take care of the birth control, and I failed. This is all my fault, and I just don’t think I can handle you being angry with me right now.”

“You need to relax,” he answered, reaching across the table for her hand and wishing that he could put an arm around her instead. “This isn’t anyone’s fault, and I’m most certainly not angry. I am just as freaked out about all of this as you are, but I know that we’ll be able to manage it as long as we stick together. Millions of complete imbeciles deal with this exact situation on a daily basis; we make a good team and are not complete imbeciles, so we are going to be fine. So just relax.”

Jo smiled and squeezed his hand, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, I needed that. This whole thing has just thrown me off balance. If it was anyone other than you, this wouldn’t even be a discussion. I wouldn’t even dream of keeping the baby with anyone else. I couldn’t do it by myself, and I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone other than you. But I just don’t know if that means that we should do it.”

“I, um,” he cleared his throat and tried to push past the fact that he felt like his heart was in throat. “For the record, I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else either; I can’t even imagine considering this with someone who isn’t you.”

“So you are considering it, then?” She asked, sounding nervous but still smiling. She also had a bit more color in her cheeks, which helped him relax even as his stomach felt like it was doing flips.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to consider anything. I mean, you’re the one who will have to deal with the bulk of this, at least for the next nine months, and probably a year after that as well. It only makes sense for you to be the one to decide whether or not you want to do this, since, naturally, it would effect you most. How much say do I really have?”

Jo smiled, looking slightly amused. “Well, I appreciate that, but as far as I’m concerned, you have just as much say as I do. Whatever we decide to do, we’ll decide it together.”

“Alright then,” he answered, sounding very pleased. “But we don’t have to decide anything right now. So let’s just relax and enjoy ourselves.” Jo agreed and the conversation moved towards what they wanted to order for dessert.

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Over the next few days things were pretty much as they usually were, as much as life at 221b Baker Street could ever be categorized as usual. There were a few small cases that were solved mostly from the flat; one of which would have been almost impossible without Jo’s medical expertise. Sherlock also put a lot of time into researching everything he could about pregnancy and child rearing. The exercise left him feeling incredibly under-informed about something that he had previously thought to be relatively simple; and the video he watched about actual childbirth was absolutely horrifying. He and Jo had set her next doctor’s appointment as the deadline for their decision, and he could tell that she was spending just as much time as he was thinking about what they should do; however, he had no way of knowing which way she was leaning in her decision, which was more than a little nerve wracking.

Jo was still feeling a bit sick, so she went to bed early the night before her doctor’s appointment. Sherlock stayed up for a little bit longer, sending a few emails and doing a bit more research. After about an hour, though, he decided to go to bed as well, figuring that he could just use his mobile instead of his laptop and it would work just as well in the bedroom as in the sitting room. He entered the room quietly, not wanting to wake his partner if she had actually managed to fall asleep. He was barely through the door when she turned and looked at him through bleary eyes; it was obvious that she hadn’t managed to sleep at all, and she looked miserable.

“What are you doing?” She asked sleepily. “Is there a case?”

He shook his head, speaking as he stripped down so that he could sleep comfortably. “No, there’s no case. I’m just coming to bed.”

“Oh,” she answered, sounding confused. “Isn’t a bit early for you?”

He shrugged as he pulled back the bedding. “It’s boring without you. And I can work well enough from my mobile.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s actually really sweet and rather adorable.” She rolled towards him, resting her head against his chest.

He grinned, gently kissing her forehead. “How are you feeling? Any better?”

“Not really,” she said with a sigh. “It’s easier when I’m lying down, though.”

He nodded, but didn’t really have any idea of what he should say to that. “Your appointment with the doctor is tomorrow.” She hummed an affirmative and she continued. “Have you decided anything?”

“What do you think?” She countered, asking her own question instead of giving her answer. “I know that you’ve been doing a lot of research, so what have you decided you want to do?”

Sherlock licked his lips, his heart pounding in his chest. “I think that we would make good parents, and that our child has a lot of potential. Between us we could do this properly, I think.”

“Good,” she answered, pushing herself up so that she could kiss him full on the mouth. “That’s good. Very good.”

He smiled, some of the tension easing out of his chest. “So you agree? We want to actually have a baby?”

“Yeah, I agree,” she answered, grinning at him. “I want to do this with you.” Sherlock laughed and kissed her again, not really knowing any other way to express just how happy he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to upload this tonight instead of tomorrow because I have a huge paper due on Monday and finals and just ugh. 
> 
> Anyway, as always, thanks for reading and I'd love to hear from you either here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Just a note about future updates: I'm going home for Christmas, which is great except there is no wifi there. I'll try and keep to the schedule and keep updating every Sunday, but it might get a bit sketchy. I'll do my best to update once a week though. I hope everyone has a very happy holiday season and good luck to all of you with finals.


	20. Chapter 20

Jo was pleasantly surprised at how involved Sherlock was in the whole process. He had gone with her to her doctor’s appointment and had continued his research with a single mindedness she had rarely seen outside of a serial killer. He also seemed genuinely excited about her pregnancy. She had honestly expected him to assume that she would just terminate the pregnancy, so the fact that he had not only not done so, but he was now obviously happy at the prospect of having a family with Jo was thrilling. He was obviously still worried, but it wasn’t the type of worry that was concerning.

It had been a week since they had made their final decision, and they had finally gotten a case from Lestrade. They were at the crime scene before five, which Jo considered inhumane when she wasn’t able to have caffeine, but it ended up being mostly intellectual, and Sherlock had solved it by four that afternoon. He was lacking his usual post-case afterglow and was abnormally quiet when they got back to the flat. He looked like he had something that he wanted to say, but he waived away all of Jo’s attempts to get him to talk. She gave up after a few tries and went into the kitchen, having decided to make a lasagna; it was one of the few days that she didn’t feel nauseous, and she didn’t want to waste it with carryout.

She had only been working for a little while when Sherlock came wandering in. He sat at the table but still didn’t say anything. He looked a bit lost, poking at various pieces of his science equipment but never actually focusing on any one thing. She knew that he was watching her, but that was something that he often did, and she was so used to it that it barely even registered anymore. She put the pasta in the oven and set the timer. She cleaned up a bit before coming behind Sherlock and wrapping her arms around his neck. She kissed his cheek lingeringly as he brought his hand up to squeeze her forearm. He leaned back against her, more relaxed then he had been since before the case.

“I want to get married,” he said, not really thinking before he spoke.

Jo froze. “You what?”

He tensed up again immediately, having to resist the urge to pull away from her. “It would only be logical. If we were married we would have more financial security, and there would be no question of what would happen if anything were to happen to either of us. Also, even though I really don’t see this happening, if something were to happen between us and we were no longer together, having been married would help ensure that I would always have access as a parent.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said, sounding astonishingly sad. “I love you — I really, really do — but I don’t want to get married for the wrong reasons. I promise that I will never deny you access to your child, but if you can’t trust me to treat you fairly, then getting married isn’t going to fix that.” She kissed his cheek again and pulled away, intending to finish washing up the dishes she had used while cooking.

Sherlock caught her by the wrist, stopping her from moving away from him. “Jo, wait. I have other reasons.”

“Alright,” she answered, shifting so that they were holding hands. She looked down at him, patiently waiting for him to speak again.

Sherlock took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he needed to say. “Jo, I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ve always wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, even before we got together romantically; I would have taken you anyway I could. You are intelligent, beautiful, and capable; you’re a better partner than I could have ever imagined, in every way. You are the only person I could ever even think about I’ve been thinking about this for a long time; I really have. If you don’t want to marry me, then that’s fine; it won’t change anything. But please, don’t say no because you think I’m just doing it because I don’t trust you or because you’re pregnant; because that’s just not true. I trust you as much as you can trust anyone, and your pregnancy is just the catalyst behind to me asking, not the reason for me asking.” He paused and took another deep breath before finishing. “Jo, I love you, so would you please, please consider marrying me?”

Jo felt breathless, but she couldn’t help but smile as she nodded. “Yeah, okay. Yes.”

“Yes what?” He asked, his heart rate spiking even as he wanted to be absolutely certain of what she was agreeing to. “Yes, you’ll consider it? Or yes you’ll marry me?”

She laughed, excitement bubbling out of her chest. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Of course I’ll marry you. I would have asked you myself if I’d thought you’d agree.”

Sherlock lurched out of his chair and hugged Jo around the waist, lifting her up and spinning her around. Jo giggled and clutched at his shoulders, her legs kicking up behind her. He had no idea what to say; the only thing he could think of was ‘thank you’ — which seemed trite — and so he didn’t say anything, happily allowing her to pull him into a kiss instead. He laughed spinning her around one last time before finally returning her to her feet.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a ring for you,” he blurted once he realized that that was something women were supposed to be concerned about. “I wasn’t really planning on doing this today, but I can get you a ring; you can pick your own ring.”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “I don’t need a ring; it’s not really practical for our lifestyle. Don’t worry about it.”

He nodded and kissed her again, relieved that, by some miracle, he had managed to get engaged to Jo.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

They ate dinner at the table in the sitting room. Neither of them could stop smiling, and Jo kept giggling when their feet knocked against each other. Sherlock smiled fondly at her, seemingly incapable of doing anything else; he had always loved Jo’s giggle, but somehow it seemed even better now that she was willing to promise to stay for the rest of her life.

About half way through the meal set down her cutlery, looking nervous even through her smile. “You know that this means we’re going to have to tell people about us.”

“Obviously,” he answered, still smiling. “It was bound to happen eventually; it was just a question of when. Now we have a reason, and it’s as good a time as any for people to find out.”

She nodded, hating that she had to push something so unpleasant and risk ruining the ecstatic mood. “It’s just that you haven’t exactly responded well to people finding out that we were together in the past, and I don’t know why that would be different now.

“I know,” he replied, ducking his head in a (failed) attempt to hide his blush. “I’m sorry.”

She purposefully knocked their feet together again, leaving their legs pressed together this time. “Hey, I didn’t want an apology for it; it’s fine. It’s all fine, but I need to know what to expect.”

“I’ll be better about it,” he promised, lifting his head to look at her, seeming remarkably shy. “I really will. And it will be different because we’ll get to pick when and how we tell people; I’ll be prepared.”

She nodded, deciding to take his word for it and hope for the best. “Alright then. Who should we tell first?”

“Mrs. Hudson,” he answered definitively. “Definitely Mrs. Hudson; she’d never forgive us if she wasn’t the first to find out. Although Mary might kill me if we don’t tell her, so we should probably tell them together.”

“We can take them out to dinner,” she agreed. “And we should probably invite Greg as well; I think he was a bit hurt that we didn’t tell him about us ourselves, and this would probably make it up to him. What about our families?”

He frowned. “We should probably let them know. Could we send out an email?”

“Somehow I don’t think they’d be pleased with that,” she replied, giggling again. “I know that my family would never forgive us if we didn’t tell them in person.”

He sighed. “Fine, but if we go visit your family, we’ll have to do the same for mine or they’ll complain that we’ve given your family preferential treatment.” Jo agreed and they moved the conversation towards the case they had solved that day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you liked this update. As always, I'd love to hear from you either here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com)


	21. Chapter 21

Jo hated how nervous the thought of going home made her, and she hated even more that the thought of taking Sherlock with her only made it worse. As a result of her nerves, she had put off packing as long as possible, and now was rushed with the knowledge that she had to be ready to leave in less than an hour. Sherlock had packed the night before and was out talking to members of his homeless network, giving final instructions before he left for four days. She was actually rather pleased about having the flat to herself for the time being: it meant that she could properly panic without being observed; unfortunately, it also meant that when Mycroft showed up in the sitting room there was no one else to deal with him.

“I don’t have time for you,” she said before the politician even had the chance to open his mouth. “We are leaving in less than an hour, and I really don’t have time to deal with whatever it is that has possessed you to break into my home yet again. Feel free to make yourself tea while you wait for your brother to get back because it is most assuredly his turn to deal with you.” She turned and walked back into her bedroom to finish packing without waiting for a response.

Sherlock came home a few minutes later. His footsteps had sounded excited coming up the stairs, but he stopped short once he got to the living room; Jo almost felt guilty for not giving him a warning of some kind. She could hear the brothers’ voices but couldn’t really tell what they were saying. Still, their tones alone were a very good indication of how the conversation was going. She heard Sherlock go from his typical annoyance at finding his brother in the flat to genuinely and completely frustrated; Mycroft’s voice also took on distinctively smug overtones, so she was completely unsurprised when Sherlock slammed the door after his brother. Sherlock came storming into their room and flopped on the bed, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I hate it when he does this,” he said, sounding miserable and frustrated. “Is it too much to ask that I get to tell him this one thing? Does he have to come in here spouting off about happy announcements and wedding plans? Would it kill him to let me be the one to tell him something about my own damn life?”

“It might,” she answered pleasantly. “He is Mycroft after all.”

The detective groaned. “I’m thirty-two years old; I should be allowed to announce my own damn marriage however I bloody well please without my older brother upstaging me.”

“That’s a very reasonable desire,” she replied. “But there’s nothing you can do about it now. He may be infuriatingly annoying, but it’s how he shows that he cares; getting yourself all worked up about it isn’t going to change anything.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you have to be so reasonable?”

“Well one of us had to be,” she said, walking to the bathroom to collect her toiletries. “And being reasonable as always fallen on my side of the division of labor in this household.”

He groaned again, this time loud enough for her to be able to hear him from the bathroom. “But it’s Mycroft! Surely that justifies some level of unreasonableness.”

“I hate to break it to you, love,” she answered, coming back into the room. “But Mycroft is no where near as bad as my family is going to be. He may be megalomaniacal genius with aspirations of omniscience, but my family is frighteningly perceptive and none of them have any tact to speak of.

“Oh god, you haven’t even met Harry yet. She’s awful, and she’s still the best of the bunch. You’re going to be completely traumatized.”

He smiled up at her. “Oh come on, they can’t be that bad. After all, they managed to produce you, and you’re wonderful.”

Jo froze, her whole face going soft as she looked down at him. “That’s really rather sweet. You’re going to be horribly disappointed and definitely traumatized, but you’re definitely very sweet and far more sentimental than you let on.”

“You seem awfully concerned about me coming away from this with some sort of emotional trauma,” he answered, trying to ignore the fact that he was blushing yet again from Jo’s compliments. “I would have thought that it would be the other way around. I am usually the one inflicting emotional damage through tactlessness rather than receiving it.”

The doctor sighed and kindly refrained from telling him just how untrue that last statement was. “Well they deserve whatever trauma you inflict on them. And I would rather like to keep you, so I’d much prefer it if they didn’t scare you away over the course of one weekend.”

“You don’t want me to go with you,” Sherlock said after a slight pause, sounding just hurt enough for Jo to know that he was hiding his emotions as best as he could.

She shook her head, trying to figure out what to say in order to reassure her partner. “It’s not that I don’t what you to come, exactly; it’s more that I don’t want to go at all. Sherlock, I haven’t been back there since before I left for my last tour in Afghanistan. I wouldn’t even be going back now if I thought I could get away with not going. My family isn’t pleasant, Sherlock, and I’d rather not impose them on my loved ones. Unfortunately, they’re going to find out about our marriage eventually, and if we don’t go to them now, they’ll show up here unannounced and that would really be a disaster.”

Sherlock gave a low hum and nodded, choosing to reflect on what she had said rather than answering it directly. “If you’re finished packing then we should probably be going; we wouldn’t want to miss our train.”

Jo agreed, zipping her bag shut.

The pair was checking the sitting room to make sure that they hadn’t forgotten to pack anything important when Sherlock’s phone rang. Sherlock gave short, terse answers to whoever was on the other line, his expression growing more and more pained with every passing second. After only a few minutes he rang off with the instruction to ‘email me the details.’ He closed his eyes and took deep breaths to compose himself, obviously trying to avoid looking as disappointed as he really was.

“What was that about?” Jo asked, trying her best to sound curious and not like she already knew the answer to her own question.

The detective sighed again. “It was just Lestrade calling with a case. He’s going to email me the crime scene photos and such for me to look at on the train.”

“It must be interesting if you’re willing to work on it from pictures alone,” she said, remembering her partner’s disgust of working from second hand material.

Another pained look crossed his face. “Yes, apparently a serial killer is performing ritualistic vivisections on women. The police have yet to be able to find any connection between the victims.”

“That sounds right up your alley,” she replied with a hum. “It would probably be much better if could stay and work the case properly.”

He glared at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. Our train is leaving in less than an hour. I know that social interaction isn’t exactly one of my strong suits, but even I know that skipping out on meeting your fiance’s family for the first time falls under the category of ‘a bit not good.’ Photographs and emails will have to suffice.”

“Sherlock, this is your job,” she answered softly, reaching for his hand. “I really don’t want to keep you from it. I can go without you and ease my family into the idea that I’m marrying my flatmate whom they didn’t even know I was dating. If you finish the case before I get back, then you can come join me.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, hope seeping into his voice despite his best efforts.”

Jo nodded, giving him an encouraging smile. “Completely. Just be safe, and call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you!” He exclaimed, beaming at his friend before swooping in and kissing her. “I promise that I’ll keep you updated. I love you.” He kissed her again before bounding out of the room, taking the stairs two or three at a time.

“I love you too,” the doctor called after him, chuckling to herself.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Luckily, Sherlock managed to get to the crime scene before the body had been removed. It was the third such crime scene and was as disturbing as the DI had promised. The consulting detective made a point of making a few token remarks reprimanding Lestrade for not calling him in sooner before settling down to examine the evidence. He was unable to completely block out the feeling of emptiness that came with not having his blogger by his side, but he managed well enough; he had had a lot of practice considering his extended absence from London and Jo’s less forgiving schedule. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something obvious that Jo would be able to point out. For lack of any other options, he called Anderson over.

“There’s something off about the body,” he said briskly, keeping his voice low enough that only the man beside him could hear. After a brief pause he decided to clarify his statement, just to be safe. “Anatomically speaking, I mean.”

Anderson hummed and gave him a nod to show that he understood the question; he didn’t say anything, however, choosing instead to focus all of his attention on the corpse in front of him. After a few moments, he knelt down in order to be more thorough in his examination.

The two men had definitely been getting along better since the Thames Incident back in December. Apparently they were shockingly compatible once they stopped referring to each other solely with insults. This newfound air of cooperation was remarkably useful, not only because the lack of antagonism made cases in general more pleasant, but also because Anderson had been taking a few medical courses, and that knowledge was helpful in the absence of Jo’s medical expertise. Jo, of course, had been unable to refrain from cracking jokes at their ‘budding bromance’ at every appropriate opportunity; Sherlock just rolled his eyes and sighed a lot when she did that; Anderson did his best to hide his smiles and pretend that he wasn’t amused.

“She’s pregnant,” the forensic analyst said after a few minutes, looking up at the detective with wide eyes and a frown. “Sometime in her second trimester, I think.”

Sherlock nodded, making a point to acknowledge his contribution (Jo had given him a whole series of lectures about why positive reinforcement was a good thing) before turning to Lestrade. “You mentioned that the other victims were pregnant as well.”

“Yes,” the DI affirmed. “We thought it was a coincidence since the second woman was only a few weeks along. The medical examiner only knew because of blood tests he ran; we weren’t even sure if the woman herself knew.”

He hummed, trying to figure out just how this information effected the case. “I believe that it is safe to say at this point that it’s not a coincidence.”

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Jo had been back at her childhood home for all of three hours and already she was seriously regretting her decision to visit. Her mum seemed incapable of not sniping about her career choices; her dad insisted on defending her with the phrase “well at least she didn’t turn out to be a total dyke;” and her uncle occasionally pointed out that, apparently, all she really needed was a man to take care of her. Also on her list of Things To Regret was scheduling the trip for four days and deciding that it would be alright to just stay in her old bedroom instead of getting a hotel room; she was simultaneously thankful that she told Sherlock to stay in London and wishing that he was there with her. In addition to all of the stress she had been planning for in preparation for this trip, it had apparently turned into a family reunion of sorts without anyone telling her.

Harry had arrived just after Jo had, and all of the aunts, uncles, and cousins either lived in town or were there before she was. The only person who had yet to arrive was her grandfather, who was making the trip down from Scotland; he was, coincidentally, the only one that she was really excited to see. Growing up, she had spent all of her summers at her grandparents house — a tradition that had continued, despite everyone’s expectations, even after her grandmother’s death when she was ten — and had almost moved in with him when she was sixteen. She hadn’t been expecting to see him on this trip, but his surprise visit almost made spending four days with the rest of her family worth it.

Hamish Watson arrived just in time for dinner, looking tired from his travels but still happy to see everyone. He easily commandeered the seat next to Jo at dinner. He asked her questions about her job and where she had gone with it and then about what cases she and Sherlock had been working on, only interrupting once to tell her to stop censoring out the dangerous parts. It was nice to tell someone about her life who was truly interested and wasn’t going to think she was completely crazy.

“I’m glad that you’ve finally found someone who can keep up with you,” he told her with a smile after she finished telling him about one of her cases. “It’s looks like you’ve finally found your perfect match.” Her grandfather was the only one in her family who knew that she and Sherlock were more than just friends, and Jo couldn’t help but blush just a little bit.

Harry, who was sitting across the table from her sister, rolled her eyes. “Come on Jo, when are you going to just give up and admit that you’re shagging your flatmate? Even Granda can see it.”

Jo cleared her throat, knowing that this was probably the best opportunity she was going to get. “Actually, Sherlock and I are getting married.”

There was complete and utter silence for a full fifteen seconds before Harry burst out laughing. “That was a good one. Oh god, I almost believed you there for a second. But you win; I’ll lay off you about Sherlock.” Everyone else chuckled as well, looking relieved that it was a just a joke.

She grit her teeth. “I wasn’t kidding. Sherlock and I have been dating for over a year, and we’ve decided to get married. We haven’t quite set a date yet, but it will probably be sometime in July.”

There was another beat of silence before Hamish turned to his granddaughter with wide grin. “Well congratulations; I’m sure that you two will be very happy together.” He kissed her cheek as she smiled and thanked him, feeling more prepared to face the surge of questions she knew her family would throw at her as soon as they got over their shock.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

The case was not going well. So far, the only connection between the victims seemed to be their pregnancies: they were from different socio-economic backgrounds; had different jobs, relationship statuses, and work schedules; they went to different medical clinics; their lives didn’t seem to intersect in any way other than their murders. Normally when a case got this frustrating, he went to Jo to help him figure it out, but he wasn’t too keen on telling her about this case, not wanting to upset her. Lestrade tried to be as helpful as possible, but somehow Sherlock didn’t think that the DI would be willing to pet his hair while he rested his head in his lap.

To make matters worse, the violence was escalating. Jo had only been gone for a day and a half and the body count had already risen to six. Sherlock’s mood was quickly deteriorating, and even he had to admit that he was being more snappish then usual. The sixth crime scene was like all the others and there was absolutely nothing new to learn. Still, Sherlock did a thorough search, hoping for some sign of the murderer. He bit back a frustrated scream when he finished and was still unable to tell if the murderer was a man or a woman.

After he finished his fruitless examination he stalked away. He ducked down the nearest alleyway and leaned his forehead against the bricks, squeezing his eyes shut and running through all of the facts again. The six women had all been at different points in their pregnancies — the fifth victim had been the farthest along at thirty-two weeks (which had made for an incredibly disturbing crime scene) — but the tableau was always the same. The women were stripped of all clothing (although there were no signs of sexual assault) and laid out on the ground with their arms and legs spread. They had been immobilized with chloroform — which seemed ridiculously cliche — before being killed via suffocation. Then the murderer had transported the bodies to where they would eventually be found — which strongly suggested that he/she had his/her own vehicle — and performed the vivisections, focusing on the reproductive system in a way that obviously indicated an unhealthy level of obsession with the women’s pregnancies (as if killing them wasn’t enough evidence of such an obsession). The dissections were preformed skillfully, which pointed to the murderer having at least some medical training, and were very precise — the murderer even pinned back the skin as you would an animal dissection in a biology class. The locations where the bodies were found were out of the way enough that the murderer would have enough time to set up his/her scenes without being interrupted, but were places — such as abandoned buildings and under overpasses — that were well trafficked enough — at least by the transient population — that the bodies would be discovered within twelve hours, indicating that the murderer wanted the bodies to be found. Which meant… what exactly?

Sherlock’s train of thought was derailed by the sound of footsteps approaching. He turned his head to assess, feeling the rough bricks scrape and pull at his skin and wondering if the motion was going to draw blood. All he saw was Lestrade, looking worried and vaguely paternal. The detective groaned quietly, not feeling up to the task of human interaction. Lestrade’s expression grew even more concerned and he quickened his pace.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” The DI asked, pulling his friend away from the wall.

The detective sighed and rolled his eyes. “Thinking. Obviously.”

“Oh, of course. It’s completely obvious that the best way to go about thinking is to give yourself a bloody head wound!” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief which he used to dab at the taller man’s forehead. Sherlock sighed again but didn’t pull away, allowing Greg to clean away the blood and then cover the scratches with plasters he procured from somewhere in his pockets.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the silver haired man in front of him. “What don’t you have in your pockets? You’re like Mary Poppins.”

“I have learned to come well prepared to anything that involves you,” he answered, looking both confused and slightly amused. “And I am frankly astonished that you have even the slightest idea of who Mary Poppins is.”

He shrugged. “Jo made me watch it a few weeks ago. She said it was a crime against humanity for me to not have seen it.”

“Speaking of Jo,” he replied, frowning again. “Why don’t you give her a call? I know that she’s working more regularly, but I think it’s time that you call her in on this one.”

He groaned again, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t. She’s visiting her parents.”

“Okay,” he said comfortingly. “Why don’t you call her anyway? Maybe just talking to her will help.”

He shook his head. “She’s hasn’t been back there since before she was shot; I don’t want to ruin it for her. And this case will bother her.”

“Well it’s bothering you,” Lestrade retorted. “I know that it’s hard when you can’t find the evidence you need, but beating yourself up about it isn’t going to help. And how’s Jo going to react when she comes home to find you bruised and bloody because you’ve decided to take the phrase ‘beating your head against a brick wall’ far too literally.”

He glared down at him. “You’re not allowed to use her against me.”

“I’m not using her against you,” he answered kindly. “I’m just reminding you that your girlfriend is eventually going to come home, and that you want her to be as pleased as possible when she does. Now, let me take you to lunch; I don’t think you’ve eaten properly since this whole thing started. And don’t give me any of that food slowing down your thinking crap; you won’t be doing too much thinking if you’ve passed out from hunger.”

Sherlock offered a few token protests, but he went without putting up any real struggle.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Jo sat down on the stoop and took deep breaths. She’d been at her parent’s house for two days, and already she was remembering all of the reasons why she ran like hell as early as she possibly could. She missed Sherlock and the ease that came with really being home. He had texted her a few times, but it was obvious that he didn’t really want to tell her what was going on with the case he was working on. It wasn’t the first time that he had decided that it was better if she didn’t know about a particular case, but it never failed to worry her. She had just begun to relax when she heard the front door open behind her, and she tensed up again in seconds.

Harry shut the door behind her and sat down next to her younger sister. “Hey, how’re you feeling?”

“Like I need a stiff drink,” she responded dryly, staring at the ground in front of her.

She laughed. “You and me both.” There was a slight pause and then she continued. “Look, I’m sorry about outing you and Sherlock like that. I really was just kidding around; I never would have said anything if I knew that you guys were really together.”

“I know,” she replied, offering her a smile. “And I’m sorry about not telling you about us. I just knew that you wouldn’t approve, and I didn’t want to fight about it.”

She sighed. “It’s not that I don’t approve — it’s hard for me to have an opinion about a man I’ve never actually met — I just don’t want you to get hurt. He doesn’t strike me as the steady and sure type. I honestly didn’t think that you’d ever get married; are you sure that he’s the one you want to give in to?”

“It’s not giving in,” she replied, her tone sharper than she had intended it to be. She paused for a deep breath before continuing. “Look, I’ll be the first one to admit that getting married wasn’t exactly in my plans, but I’m not settling and giving in. I can’t imaging wanting to marry anyone else, and I don’t think Sherlock could either. You may not see him as the steady and sure type, but he’s one of the most loyal people I’ve ever met.”

She nodded slowly. “So do you think you can be happy with him? Even with wedding vows and rings; sometimes it’s a lot of pressure you know.”

“I know I can be happy,” she answered, smiling. “When I’m with Sherlock I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, hands down, and I know that the same goes for him. I’m not saying that it’ll be easy, but when has anything worth doing ever been easy?”

There was a lull in the conversation and Jo had begun to relax again when Harry turned to her with a slight frown. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you? That’s why you two are getting married so quickly, and why you’re coming here for the first time in years. You’re knocked up.”

Jo sighed, knowing that denying it at this point would be useless. “Yeah, we’re trying to keep it quiet though, so please don’t say anything.”

“I won’t tell,” she promised. “But the rest of them are going to figure it out. You may not think very highly of them, but they can count to nine at the very least.”

She chuckled. “I know that. But I’m not marrying Sherlock just because he got me pregnant — in fact I said no the first time he asked because I didn’t want that to be the reason — and I don’t really want to listen to them go on about it. You know Dad, he’d never let it go if he knew.”

“Alright, I concede the point,” she replied, smiling. “You know, you could have avoided the whole issue if you had just gone the smart route and shagged women like any other intelligent female.”

She laughed, shaking her head and bumping their shoulders together affectionately. “Thanks for the tip; I’ll have to remember that for my next reincarnation.” Harry laughed as well and then Jo continued. “For the record though: I would have shagged Sherlock even if he was a she. It wouldn’t have made a difference to me.”

“That is so sickeningly romantic I think I might vomit,” she answered, feigning a few gags.

Jo shoved her. “Oh come off it.”

“No seriously,” she answered, forcing herself to stop laughing as she pulled her sister into a half hug. “I’m really happy for you. You’re my baby sister; I’m glad you’ve found someone you think is worth sticking around for.” Jo thanked her and they fell into silence, simply enjoying each other’s company as they watched the sunset.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks for reading, as always, and sorry this one is a bit late. I hope you all have a happy new year, and that anyone who was away visiting family had a good time and save travels. I'd love to hear from you either here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com)


	22. Chapter 22

There was something there. Sherlock knew that there was something there, but he was missing it. It was the eighth crime scene, and something was definitely different. There was evidence here, he knew there was, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. It made him want to scream and pull all of his hair out. Thankfully, Lestrade had seen the signs of his growing frustration and had cleared the room, so at least there would be a minimal amount of witnesses to his impending mental breakdown. He gave in and pulled out his mobile, quickly dialing Jo’s number from memory.

The doctor answered on the first ring. “Hello love, what’s up? How’s the case?”

“It’s not making any sense!” He growled, resisting the urge to start banging his head against the wall again. “There’s something here, I know there is. I just can’t see it!”

He heard the sound of her moving to a secluded place before she spoke again. “Okay, calm down. It’s going to be fine. Are you alone?”

“Lestrade’s here,” he answered, feeling him start to relax just at the sound of her voice. “But he’s the only one.”

“Alright, now close your eyes,” she said, her voice purposefully as soothing as she possibly could. “Take deep breaths in through your mouth and count to ten.”

“Okay,” he replied, doing as she told him to.

After the appropriate amount of time had passed she spoke again. “Okay, now keep your eyes closed. Describe the crime scene for me. Tell me everything that you can remember.”

“The victim has been laid out like all the others,” he began, calling up the scene in his mind’s eye. “She’s about five foot eight with red hair; she’s very pale, has freckles. Her hands are facing down, the others’ hands were placed palm up, but I don’t think it really matters; why would the hands matter? There’s slight bruising around the mouth — not surprising considering that chloroforming someone takes a bit more effort than the films suggest. The dissection is precise and clean, obviously indicating medical training. But I knew that before! There’s something else! Something that I can’t bloody see!”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, obviously taking the time to carefully plan what she was going to say next. “Okay. Open your eyes, and focus on her hands; just her hands. They’re facing down instead of up, and that’s different. If everything is exactly the same, then focus on the one thing that’s different. So look at her hands. Describe them for me.”

“They’re pale, like the rest of her,” he said, bending down to get a better look. “The fingers are red and slightly raw, like they’ve been been scrubbed too hard; her cuticles are rough, and her nails are a bit jagged because she chewed them. She’s young — and an art student — so it’s not surprising that she hasn’t taken the best care of her hands. She’s putting herself through school; she has more important things to worry about than making sure her nails are fashionably manicured.”

“As opposed to someone like you,” she joked, knowing that lightening the mood a bit always helped her friend. “Don’t pretend that I don’t know you sneak off for a mani-peti twice a month.”

Sherlock hummed and rolled his eyes as he turned the victim’s hands over. “Her palms are as red as her fingers, but the backs of her hands aren’t red at all. Why would she scrub so thoroughly — it must have been at least slightly uncomfortable, so she was dedicated — and then not do the back of her hands?” He lifted her hand and sniffed, trying to place the faint scent that seemed painfully familiar. After a few moments he gasped. “Oh! It’s petrol! She didn’t wash her hands; the murderer did. He was trying to hide the evidence.

“Jo, I have to go. You’re brilliant.” He hung up without waiting for a response, knowing that she wouldn’t really mind. After another examination he found what he was looking for lodged under one of the victim’s fingernails. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he had had a few minutes earlier.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Sherlock had finally broken down and called her of day three of her trip; he had been as vague as he could while still doing as she asked, but it had sounded as if he had had an epiphany of some sort before he ended the call. She hoped that he could wrap up the case soon; although she knew that even if he did so within an hour of their phone call he still wouldn’t come join her. She was doing her best not to worry too much about the amount of trouble Sherlock might be getting into, and in order to help keep herself occupied, she was helping her mum in the kitchen. Jo had always enjoyed cooking, and it was one of the few interests that she shared with her mother. Harry was sitting on the counter top, telling them about the horrors of teaching secondary school. It was peaceful and relaxing, and Jo was just beginning to think that the trip back wasn’t a completely horrible idea when her dad got back from the store.

“Christ I could go for a drink,” he said loudly as he banged his bags down on the counter. “How about it Josie? Want to pop down to the pub with me for old time’s sake?”

Jo grit her teeth, both at the obnoxious nickname she had thought she’d done away with and at how tense Harry had gotten at their father’s words. “No thanks; I’m good.”

“Oh come on, don’t be so uptight,” he said, laughing at what he apparently thought was a joke. “Or are you pregnant or something?” Jo hadn’t really been expecting the accusation and thus was caught off guard, hesitating just a bit too long.

“Oh god you are,” he said, looking simultaneously appalled and triumphant. “That’s why you’re getting married isn’t it.”

Jo took a deep breath and steeled herself even as she felt her stomach sinking. “I’m about twelve weeks along.”

Her mother pulled her into a hug. “Oh honey, I’m so happy for you. When were you going to tell us?”

“I was waiting until the right time,” she lied easily. “It’s kind of big news, and I’ve had a lot of information to share on this trip.”

Her father clapped her on the back. “I should have known. No Watson has ever gotten married without a pregnancy involved.” Jo grit her teeth again, hating the way that the statement simultaneously made her mother turn beet red and her sister flinch with the reminder that their father had never really accepted her marriage to Clara.

Before she could come up with anything else to say, her mum launched into a monologue about how great it was that she was going to have a baby, how amazing motherhood was, and how excited she was to be a grandmother. It simultaneously took the attention off of Jo and never allowed anyone to think about anything else.

She had just about reached the end over her tolerance for her family telling her how to raise a child that had yet to actually be born, while also making as many semi-subtle digs at the fact that she wasn’t yet married as they possibly could when her grandfather came up to her and offered her his arm. “Come on, be a good girl and take an old man for a walk. You look like you’ve about reached your limit.”

“A walk sounds absolutely lovely,” she responded with a smile. “You’re a complete life saver.”

He laughed. “Oh come now. You’re far more resilient than that.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” she answered, grinning conspiratorially. “I was about five minutes away from completely snapping.”

He shook his head and squeezed her hand comfortingly. “Don’t worry about them. It doesn’t matter what prompted the engagement as long as you two love each other. You know your grandmother and I didn’t get married until we had a happy accident of our own, and that woman was the love of my life.”

“I’m not really worried about it,” she replied with a small smile. “It’s just frustrating to have to listen to them go on about it. Especially when it’s already taking everything I have not to vomit several times a day.”

“Well vomiting or no,” he said, kissing her cheek, “I hope that you three are very happy. From the way you describe him, I can’t imagine that anyone would be better for you than Sherlock. I truly do hope that you are as happy with your spouse as I was with mine.”

Jo beamed at him. “Thank you; that really does mean a lot to me. I can’t wait for you to meet him. I’m sure that you’ll love him.”

“I’ll have to come down to London sometime,” he replied. “I’ll even help you with the wedding plans. You are having an actual wedding, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes, we thought that it would be easiest in the end; we didn’t want to ruffle too many feathers by just going down to the courthouse over the weekend. And we’d love to have you anytime you want to visit.” He prompted her to continue talking about their wedding plans as the walked; for once Jo didn’t really mind the questions.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Jo was beyond excited to be back in the relative peace and quiet of home, which was an odd feeling to have towards a place she had compared to a war zone on more than one occasion. Sherlock was still wrapping up his case, but she had called him when she got off the train, and he had told her that he was almost done and that he would be home within a few hours. He made her promise to go straight back to the flat, lock the doors, and not leave until he got back. She normally would have argued at least a little bit, but he sounded so panicked that she didn’t have the heart to even try; besides, she didn’t really want to go anywhere other than home.

Mrs. Hudson was out when she finally reached Baker Street, so she had the flat all to herself. After taking a few moments to revel in all of the sensations that came with really being home, she decided to do laundry, knowing that Sherlock definitely hadn’t done any in her absence and that she had a suitcase full of dirty clothes. Laundry was one of the few household tasks that wasn’t the sole responsibility of either Jo or Sherlock, since both of them enjoyed doing it. Sherlock liked it because he said that the repetitive motions allowed him the perfect opportunity to think without interruption (Jo was pretty sure that it was just his vanity about his clothes shining through with a practical application), while Jo enjoyed it because it was an expression of individuality that she hadn’t really been allowed in the Army (she also found the sound of the machines oddly soothing).

She had taken the load out of the dryer and was folding the clothes when she heard the downstairs door open and close with a loud bang. She smiled to herself as she heard Sherlock run up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. She turned to the door, ready to greet him with a kiss, but Sherlock never gave her the chance to say anything. Instead, he bounded through the door, crossed the room, and pulled her into his arms, literally lifting her off of her feet. He carried her into their room and placed her on the bed with more gentleness than she had expected from his rather brash entry. After studying her carefully for a few moments, the detective collapsed onto the mattress next to his partner, pressing his face against her stomach and breathing deeply. Jo, not knowing what else to do, began running her fingers through his hair. She stayed silent, wanting to give him the chance to explain things himself before she began pressing him for answers. A few minutes later Sherlock had neither moved nor shown any sign of relaxing, so Jo decided to break the silence.

“Did you solve the case?” She asked quietly, trying to sound as non-threatening as she possibly could.

He nodded, not bothering to lift his head off of her stomach. “Yes.”

“Did things go badly?” She continued, running through all of the reasons that her friend would be this upset. “Did someone get hurt?”

He shook his head, still hiding his face in her jumper. “No, the arrest was pretty straight forward. It was just finding him that was the problem.”

“Then what’s wrong?” She question with a sigh. “I’d have thought that you’d be ecstatic after solving such a difficult case. You normally like the clever ones.”

Sherlock winced, flinching bodily away from her. “I didn’t like this case; I didn’t like it at all.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it,” she said, cupping his cheek in her hand and finally getting him to make eye contact with her. “It might make you feel better if you talk about it.”

He frowned, obviously conflicted, before nodding and taking a deep breath. “The murderer was John Stern. He worked as a receptionist in various birth clinics, which is how he found all of his victims. He targeted pregnant women who came into the clinics, killing them and then performing vivisections on their bodies, focusing mainly on the reproductive tracts. He was methodical and precise, but he started devolving and got sloppy. He managed to kill ten women before I caught him.”

“That sounds awful,” she replied. “But you caught him, Sherlock. You need to let it go; you know that you can’t take your work home with you like this.”

“I can’t just let it go!” He shouted. “One of the clinics he worked at was yours! And the last woman he killed looked so much like you, and she was only thirteen weeks along. It could have easily been you! I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you. You currently comprise my entire family, and…” he cut himself off, closing his eyes against the sudden onslaught of tears.

Jo quickly sat up and pulled him into her arms. “Hey, calm down; it’s okay. I’m right here. No one hurt me. Everything is fine.” After a few moments Sherlock’s breathing evened out again and she continued. “You can’t blame yourself for every psychopath who might have hurt someone you love. And you caught the bastard, so he’s not going to hurt anyone else. That’s a Very Good Thing, and you shouldn’t let yourself ruin it with what ifs.”

“But all I could see was you,” he answered, still sounding like he was on the verge of crying. “Every time that I looked at the last body, I saw you. It was horrible. I knew who was doing it, but I didn’t know how to catch him, and all I saw when I looked down at her was you lying there instead…”

He sounded like he was on the verge of hyperventilating so she shushed him, pulling him tight against her again. “It’s okay love; I’m right here. Everything is going to be fine.” After a few minutes she carefully levered them backwards so that they were lying down, still holding Sherlock tightly. “Come on, you’re exhausted; I’ll bet that you haven’t really slept since before I left. Everything will be better after you’re rested. Now, let’s get you out of those clothes so that you can have a proper nap.”

“Will you stay?” He asked warily, sitting up and beginning to pull at his clothes.

“Of course I will,” she answered, pulling her own jumper over her head before standing up to undress properly. “And when we wake up, you’ll let me take you to dinner and I’ll tell you all about the wedding plans I made with my grandfather without consulting you.”

Sherlock frowned in confusion at that last statement but ultimately decided to wait and ask about it later. He stood and stripped as well, and soon the couple was cuddled under the blankets together. Sherlock was spooned behind Jo, and he took a sleepy sort of comfort from her warmth as he spread his hand out against her abdomen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Happy New Year! I'm updating early this week because I have wifi now and I don't know if I'll have it Sunday. I'll be back at school next week, though, so updating will definitely resume its normal schedule. As always, I'd love to hear from you either here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com).


	23. Chapter 23

The couple’s trip to Sherlock’s parents’ home was planned to be much shorter than their trip to Jo’s parents had been; they were leaving Friday after Jo got off work, and were planning to be back by Sunday evening. Unfortunately, she had to work late, and they weren’t going to get to their destination until well after dinner. Sherlock had offered to bring her something to eat since they were meeting at the train station instead of at Baker Street, and she had packed her bag the night before.

Jo ate quickly, starving even though she had purposefully stopped for lunch. Sherlock watched her eat, having promised that he had eaten earlier; Jo wasn’t sure that she believed him, but she didn’t have the energy to fight him about it. She made a few abortive attempts at conversation, but her partner’s answers were brief and unfocused, so she quickly gave up. Sherlock seemed nervous and jittery, bouncing his leg up and down as he stared fixedly out the window. Jo couldn’t say that she blamed him — she hadn’t been much better off when it came to visiting her family — but his nervousness was rubbing off on her, exasperating her pregnancy induced nausea.

When she finished eating, Sherlock took it upon himself to deal with the dishes, cleaning with an intensity that generally indicated emotional upheaval. Jo watched him carefully, her concern growing as she watched his anxiety ratchet itself up hight and higher. When he finally sat down next to her again, she placed her hand on his still bouncing leg, stilling the movement. She looked up at him, not saying anything, and waited patiently for him to start speaking. After a few moments he sighed and caved in to her silent demands.

“I know that you said that you didn’t want an engagement ring,” he began keeping his eyes focused on the floor. “But I wanted to get you something to commemorate the occasion.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a jewelry box. It was to big to be a ring, for which she was grateful.

“Thank you,” she murmured as he handed it to her, still looking at anything other than his fiance. She opened the box and her breath caught in her throat. Inside, there was a pendant on a thin gold chain. The pendant was a small bee, adorable but well made and obviously expensive. The body was made up of gold inlaid with pieces of onyx; onyx was also used for the eyes. The wings were also gold and were inlaid with small diamonds.

“Oh Sherlock, it’s beautiful,” she whispered, sounded breathless. She was fighting back tears and decided to blame them on the pregnancy hormones.

“So you like it?” He asked, finally looking over at her.

Jo nodded, returning his smile happily. “Of course I do. Thank you so much. I wish I had gotten you something; I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he answered, not wanting her to be anything but happy. “We didn’t talk about anything like this. I just wanted to give you something to let you know how serious I am about all of this.” He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“I’ve always found bees fascinating; I spent whole chasing them when I was a boy. I’d always planned that if I lived long enough to get too old to do what I do, then I would move to the country somewhere and keep bees. It wasn’t until I met you that I began to hope that I wouldn’t have to be alone. I mean, obviously you might not even like bees, and we can figure out something that we’ll both enjoy, but the point is that I have a plan. I know that you’ve worried about where we’ll all end up, which is only natural; I just wanted you to know that I really do plan to grow old with you.”

Jo smiled softly, reaching out to place her hand on his thigh. “I like bees, and moving to the country doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Although, I really don’t care what we do as long as you’re not bored.”

“I won’t be bored,” he promised, beaming at her.

She smirked, giving his leg a squeeze. “Good. Because I am not turning to a life of crime just to keep you entertained during our twilight years.

He laughed, slipping the box out of her hand. “I won’t be bored; bees are more dependable than criminals.” He pushed on her shoulder, making her turn so that he could fasten the pendant around her neck.

“Thank you,” she replied, turning back to smile at him and reached up to finger the pendant. “I, um, it’s just lovely. I… thank you.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss against her temple. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it. I just really wanted to make sure you knew that I have a plan.”

“Thank you,” she said again, wanting to make sure that he knew that she had understood and appreciated what he had been trying to say. She leaned in for a kiss, smiling even against his lips.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

When they finally got off the train it was already late. Sherlock had called ahead to reserve a car to rent, but even so, it took far longer than either of them thought it should to get everything sorted. By the time they finally got on the road, they were both more than a little annoyed, and Jo was absolutely exhausted. Sherlock had told her that it would take them over an hour to get to the house, and she wasn’t sure if she should try to take a nap or stay up and keep her partner company. She looked over at him and frowned; the muscles in his jaw were obviously tense and his posture was stiff and painfully straight. She reached out and took his hand, wanting to relax him or at least show that he wasn’t alone. He didn’t turn to look at her, keeping his eyes focused on the road, but he intertwined their fingers, his jaw relaxing enough that she no longer feared for his teeth.

“I feel like I should apologize in advance,” he said after they had been driving for a while.

Jo waited for him to continue, but when no explanation came she spoke up herself. “What for? Your family can’t be that bad. I have survived Mycroft well enough, you know.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Mycroft and I are both products of our family, and, in our own, different ways, we have both tried very hard to escape from that past. Mummy is very intelligent, but she doesn’t have anywhere near Mycroft’s tact. She’s always known exactly what she wants, and she isn’t above using other people to get it; we both learned how to manipulate people from her, but neither of us have ever been able to keep her from manipulating us. She could have been a person of great influence and power, she certainly wanted to be, but she lets her emotions control her; growing up, I was never able to predict whether she would be reasonable or not, and I haven’t really gotten any better at it now that I’m an adult. There’s a reason Mycroft revels in silence and I prefer to fill the world with my own noise; our mother has never been of the opinion that she should suffer in silence, and, in her mind at least, she is always suffering.” He fell silent, obviously lost in his memories.

Jo squeezed his hand, bringing him out of his thoughts. “And what about your father?”

“He was always very disapproving,” he answered with a sigh. “I don’t think he really wanted children, but it was the done thing and he had to produce heirs for the estate. Perhaps he loves us in his own way, but he never had any patience for children. Even when we got older, he was always much more interested in his books than in us. He’s not very interested in his wife either, something which she is no above complaining about very loudly. My father is, by contrast, very quiet, but he definitely makes his displeasure known.” He shook his head again, taking a deep breath. “They won’t like you; I know they won’t. They’ll think you’re beneath me, which is ridiculous because obviously you’re the one who’s settling here.”

“Hey,” she interrupted, giving his hand a shake. “No one is settling for anyone here. And I don’t care if your family likes me or not as long as you like me.”

He gave her a smile, looking somewhat relieved. “You should take a nap. You’re exhausted, and you’ll want to be well rested before we get there.”

“Are you sure?” She asked, stifling a yawn at the mere suggestion of sleep. “I really don’t mind staying up with you if you want.”

“It’s fine, he promised, kissing her knuckles. “You haven’t been sleeping well lately, so you should grab some sleep when you can. I’ll be fine; I like driving.”

She nodded in agreement and gave his hand one last squeeze before letting it go and reclining her seat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a bit late, mostly because I'm absolutely exhausted and forgot that I hadn't already uploaded it. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it and, as always, I'd love to hear from you either here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com)


	24. Chapter 24

Jo woke up as Sherlock killed the engine. She sat up and looked around. She was simultaneously awed and completely unsurprised by the extreme grandeur they were surrounded by. She stretched and rubbed at her eyes, trying to wake up fully. When she turned to look at her partner she saw him watching her with a fond expression. She smiled at him, and he returned the smile easily before heaving a heavy sigh and frowning.

“We should probably go in before they notice us. We have a better chance of staying in the same room if we don’t let them have any immediate influence on where we put our things.”

“Are they really that conservative?” She asked, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden.

He sighed again, looking annoyed. “No, they aren’t. They just use propriety as a weapon. If we put our things in the same room, then I don’t think they will say anything.”

“Well I’m glad you’re so sure of yourself,” she mumbled, getting out of the car so that she could go get their bags. She took deep breaths, not wanting to take her own nervousness out on her friend. By the time she came back around the front of the car, she had calmed herself down again and was able to offer her parter a smile. Sherlock took his bag from her and linked their free hands together. They had apparently parked around the side of what was probably the biggest mansion Jo had ever actually seen in person. He led them through a tiny side door. He walked quickly, leading them through a maze of hallways and corridors; he didn’t hesitate at all even when the hallways they walked through were pitch black. A few minutes later, he opened a seemingly random door that led into a lavish bedroom. Jo looked around with wide eyes, wondering if this had been Sherlock’s childhood bedroom.

The detective smirked knowingly at her. “This is just a guest room. Keeping my room was far too sentimental for my parents.”

“That’s too bad,” she said quietly. “I was looking forward to seeing the room where you grew up.”

He shrugged. “I never spent much time here; I went away to school when I was seven, so I was only here for school breaks. My room wouldn’t have been what you were hoping for.

“Oh,” she replied, not really sure what to say.

He shrugged again. “I liked school well enough. There are probably pictures of some of my dorm rooms around here somewhere. I’ll see if I can find them for you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she answered, smiling. “It was just a whim. I don’t want you to go to any trouble over it.”

Sherlock hummed and reached out for her hand again. “Come on, we should probably go find everyone and let them know we’re here. Mycroft has already arrived; he’s sent several smug texts.”

Sherlock once again led the way through the mansion without hesitation. Jo found new appreciation for his sense of direction; although she wasn’t sure how he knew where to go since she was fairly confident that that he hadn’t asked anyone where they were. They hadn’t gone very far when Sherlock stopped them in front of a thick wooden door. He took a deep breath, obviously steeling himself, before giving her a reassuring smile and opening the door.

There was an older man sitting at a desk in the corner of the room, and Mycroft and a gray haired woman were sitting in a pair of matching chairs, chatting. The conversation fell silent when the couple entered the room, and the woman stood up to greet them.

“Sherlock! It’s so good to see you.” She crossed the room and pulled him into a tight embrace.

He returned her hug stiffly, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “It’s good to see you too, Mummy.” He stepped back, taking another deep breath, and placed his hand on the small of Jo’s back. “Mummy, I want you to meet my partner, Jo Watson. Jo, this is my mother, Evanna Holmes.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Jo said brightly, holding out her hand.

Mrs. Holmes shook her hand, her expression falling flat. “Mycroft has told me all about you.” Her expression was distinctly unimpressed, and Jo was actually surprised when the woman didn’t wipe her hand off on her trousers when they finished shaking hands.

Sherlock cleared his throat, obviously feeling a little awkward. “And this is my father, Sherringford.”

The older man finally stood up and crossed the room, looking mildly annoyed at the interruption. “Good to meet you.” They shook hands and before she could make an answer, he continued speaking. “Mycroft tells us that you’re a doctor. Surgeon?”

“I was a surgeon, yes,” she answered, nodding. “But I do general practice now.”

Evanna spoke up, looking very understanding. “That must be nice. I’ve heard that surgery can be very stressful if you don’t have a great aptitude for it. General practice must be much more relaxing.”

Jo bristled, fairly certain that he was being insulted. “Actually, I would still be doing surgery if I hadn’t been injured, and, having practiced both types of medicine, I would say that they’re both equally challenging. I don’t think I’ve lost anything in the transition.” That last part was probably a lie, and she knew that Sherlock knew it was a lie, but for once he let the opportunity to point out a painful truth pass him by; for whatever reason, Mycroft also stayed quiet.

Evanna didn’t really have an answer for that, and they all went and sat down. The Holmes’ returned to their original seats, and Sherlock and Jo sat on the sofa, pressed close together.

Evanna asked her son questions about his work and life, which he answered with as little information as possible. Jo felt definitively left out of the conversation, but she was too nervous to try and interject anything; she briefly considered starting up a conversation with Mycroft, just to talk to someone, but she quickly remembered her decision to never willingly enter into a conversation with the politician and gave up that idea. Sherlock kept his arm around her shoulders, and she couldn’t quite figure out whether it was meant to be protective or if he was seeking comfort; in all probability, it was some mixture of the two. They hadn’t been there very long before she was stifling yawns again; a few minutes later, Evanna noticed and finally turned her attention to her guest.

“Oh how silly of me,” she said, offering her a smile. “I’ll call someone to come and take your bags to your room. You must be exhausted after working all day and then traveling.”

“Actually,” Sherlock interrupted, tensing up, “We already carried our bags in. They’re in the room I normally stay in.”

His mother frowned, her eyes going icy. “Well that’s ridiculous! She doesn’t want to share a room with you. And it’s not like we’re short on space; Jo can have her own room.”

Jo frowned as well, feeling very confused. “Um, you do know that we live together, right?” She flicked her gaze over to Mycroft, who was looking more amused than she had ever seen him.

Evanna rolled her eyes. “Of course I know that you two share a flat, but I also know my son. And you live with him, so you obviously know about his condition; there’s no need to keep up appearances for my sake.”

Confused, Jo turned to look at her partner for clarification, but Sherlock had flushed red and was refusing to look at anyone.

“I don’t think I know what you’re talking about,” she finally said, speaking slowly in her confusion.

Mrs. Holmes laughed. “Oh come now Miss Watson, don’t play dumb; it’s not very becoming. And you’re certainly not going to hurt his feelings.”

“I’m not playing dumb,” she replied quickly, feeling protective of her partner, who was now trying to make himself as small as possible while not being obvious about it. “I really don’t know what you are talking about. He doesn’t have a condition.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Of course he has a condition; there was a diagnosis! And even if he was capable, you really aren’t his type.”

Jo shook her head. “I don’t…”

“Come on,” Sherlock interrupted, sounding panicked, “I’ll take you back to the room, Jo. We’ll see you all in the morning.” He stood up and looked down at his friend, clenching his fists to keep from fidgeting. He was obviously bothered by the conversation, so Jo stood up and followed him out of the room.

Sherlock walked quickly through the halls, taking what Jo was pretty sure was an entirely different route back to the room. The detective shut and latched the door behind them as soon as Jo was inside; she sat down on the bed and watched as he began to pace back and forth across the room. It was silent, even the sound of Sherlock’s steps muffled by the thick carpet.

After a few minutes Jo held out her hand, not grabbing him physically but arresting his attention all the same. “Sherlock, come sit down. I don’t know what’s got you so worked up, but it’s going to be okay, I promise.”

Sherlock stopped and stared at her for a moment before he came and sat stiffly beside her, his movements stilted and tense.

“What just happened?” She asked, placing her hand on his thigh. “You know me, never able to see what’s right in front of me. Explain it to me.”

Sherlock sighed, his free leg bouncing up and down. “When I was fifteen I was diagnosed as a sociopath.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, her hand tightening on his leg. “So that’s the condition your mother was talking about.”

He nodded and she scooted closer so that they’re arms were pressed against each other.

“You know that thats not true,” she said, hoping that she was stating the obvious. “You are more than capable of empathizing with others, and lord knows you’re not unfeeling. I’m sorry that your family doesn’t realize that, but it doesn’t make it any more true.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, sounding heartbreakingly childish.

She nodded, hoping that she sounded as sincere as she felt. “I”m positive.”

He smiled, relaxing at her words, and Jo once again marveled at how much influence her words had over him. She returned his smile and took a deep breath in preparation for her next line of inquiry.

“And what about me not being your type?” She asked, simultaneously not wanting to know that answer and needing to have all the information that could be used against her.

He tensed again, sighing deeply. “Any number of reasons, probably. She thinks you’re beneath our family; she doubts your intelligence; she just wants to put us on the defensive; she’s mostly convinced I’m gay. Take your pick.”

Jo swallowed, taking a moment to process the new information. “I think you’re going to have to explain that last one.”

He sighed again, this time sounding mildly annoyed. “There was a boy when I was in Uni — Victor Trevor. We were friends, and then we were more. Mycroft found out, so obviously Mummy found out. She sees sexuality in black and white: you are either one or the other; one is right and the other is most definitely wrong. I don’t think she’s ever quite forgiven me for Victor.”

“I’m sorry,” she answered, feeling a pain of sympathy.

He shrugged, not relaxing even a little. “It was a long time ago.” He paused for a deep breath before continuing. “You’re not upset, are you?”

She frowned, shaking her head. “Of course not. Why should I be upset?” When he didn’t answer she sighed, leaning into him fondly. “That would be more than a little hypocritical of me, especially considering how great you’ve been about Mary. So relax. You’ve been watching far too much crap telly with Mrs. Hudson if you’re really expecting me to kick up a fuss over something that was over and done with a decade before we even met.”

Sherlock smiled, heaving a quiet sigh of relief. “I suppose you do have a point; you’ve always told me that it would rot my brain — which is still ridiculous by the way.”

“Yes, yes, I’m ridiculous,” she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Now, I know that you’ve packed one of those books you’re always dying to read aloud. Let me get ready for bed and then you can bore me as much as you like.

He laughed. “You love it when I read to you.

“I love you,” she countered, leaning in for a quick kiss before standing up.

Sherlock grinned and watched her for a moment before going to get changed himself. 


	25. Chapter 25

Jo was woken up by her phone buzzing on the bedside table. She blearily looked at the clock and groaned: 6:42. It was too damn early for anyone to be calling, and everyone knew that she was on holiday, so there was really no excuse. London could damn well be burning itself to the damn ground, and they could wait a few damn hours before letting her know. She checked the caller id and groaned again: It was her boss, which meant that she really should answer.

“Hello?” She asked quietly, trying to sound as awake as possible without waking Sherlock up.

"Good morning Dr. Watson" Dr. Andrews said, sounding, as always, far too chipper for how early it was. "I have a few questions to ask you about the trip tomorrow."

She bit back a sigh and started to get up properly. "Alright, just give me a moment. I don't want to wake Sherlock up."

"Fine," Andrews replied, her tone darkening significantly; Jo had announced both her relationship with Sherlock and her pregnancy a few weeks before, and Andrews had been one of several who were less than pleased with the news.

She muted her phone and finally let herself sigh, rubbing at her eyes. After a deep breath or two she mustered up the energy to actually get up. Sherlock rolled over and caught her by the wrist--she was sure out of reflexes more than anything else.

"Where are you going?" He mumbled, almost incomprehensibly. "We're on holiday."

She smiled fondly and gently detached his grasping hand, giving it a squeeze before letting it fall to the mattress. “It’s just some work stuff; I’ll be back soon.” She quickly steeped out into the hall, closing the door quietly behind her and moving a few feet away, afraid that if she wandered too much farther she'd get embarrassingly lost.

Jo's conversation with Dr. Andrews took far longer than she thought strictly necessary, and by the time she was able to finally ring off she could feel her impending nausea building up again. She was also freezing since she hadn't bothered putting anything on over the boxers and vest she had worn to bed. She was just about to head back into the bedroom when Sherringford Holmes rounded the corner. He faltered a little, looking surprised to see her standing out in the hallway wearing his son's underwear. She offered him a friendly smile, taking a somewhat perverse pleasure in surprising a Holmes at all.

"Good morning Dr. Watson," he said, recovering quickly.

"Good morning," she replied cheerily. "And please, call me Jo; Mycroft is the only one who ever calls me Dr. Watson, and that's usually after he's kidnapped me in so a fashion or another."

He frowned, looking mildly concerned. "You seem to deal with my sons remarkably well; most people aren't so understanding when it comes to their quirks."

"It's really not very complicated," she answered with a shrug. "Don't get me wrong, they can both be incredibly difficult, and they're certainly the two smartest people I've ever met, but in the end, they're fairly simple. Most people are."

His frown didn't ease. "It's not very often that my sons are compared to 'most people' either."

"They are certainly unique," she said, sounding undeniably fond. "But that doesn't mean that they're complicated. It's really not very hard to figure out what they're really looking for. Subtlety is not really their strong suit."

He nodded, now looking confused. "And what is it that they want?"

"Well Mycroft wants control," she answered easily. "That's fairly obvious. He thinks that if he can just control everything around him, then everything will be fine."

"And what about Sherlock? What is it that he wants?" He pressed, looking interested and trying to hide it.

Jo hesitated, not sure if she was betraying her friend by answering. "Attention. He really just wants to be noticed."

Sherringford hummed, his expression blank, pausing for a moment before changing the subject. "And what are you doing up so early? I thought you were supposed to be on holiday."

"I just had to deal with some stuff for work," she replied, waiving her phone for emphasis. "I'm sure that after this they'll actually let me off the clock."

"Mycroft tells us that you're a soldier," he replied, his expression unreadable. "It must have been difficult to transition into civilian practice."

She shrugged, not really sure if he was making a specific point or not. "It want my first choice, but I wasn't really given much of a choice in the matter."

"I'm sure that if you're half as good as Sherlock seems to think you are, then they would have kept you on in some capacity," he answered with what sounded suspiciously like a compliment, his gaze flickering to where the edge of her scar was just visible under her top.

She shrugged again. "They offered, but I'm really not one for being stuck behind a desk, so I decided to see if I could find something I was better suited for as a civilian."

Sherringford nodded, looking vaguely approving. "Well, I don't want to keep you any longer. I'm sure that you want to bet back to..." he trailed off, waiving at the closed bedroom door.

She smiled and said her goodbyes, relieved because her nausea was beginning to become more of a pressing issue. Once back inside the room she quickly checked to make sure that Sherlock was still asleep before she hurried into the adjoining bathroom and gagged into the toilet until her body realized that she really didn't have anything in her stomach to vomit up. She then brushed her teeth and made her way back into bed. She slipped beneath the covers and pressed her cold body against Sherlock's warmth. The detective shivered and groaned unhappily but wrapped his arms around her all the same.

"Why did it take you so long?" He asked, sounding more conscious than the last time they'd talked.

She sighed. "You'd think that a business run by so many doctors would have at least one person who could read. I swear, I left a really detailed to do list that answered every single thing Andrews asked me about."

"I think I'm rubbing off on you," he replied with a chuckle. "You're normally less irritated with the world at large."

She rolled her eyes. "She called me at 6:45 while I'm on holiday; I think I'm allowed to be irritable."

"Well I'm certainly not complaining," he replied warmly. "Is that's all you were doing? Answering your boss' stupid questions?"

She shook her head, not bothering to lift it from where it was resting on his chest. "I also had a nice chat with your dad."

Sherlock tensed immediately, his eyes flying open. "You were what? What did you talk about?"

"It was just small talk," she answered, confused as to why he sounded so panicked.

He rolled his eyes irritatedly. "My father does not do 'small talk.' What exactly did you two talk about?"

She shrugged. "You; Mycroft; my career. It was just small talk."

"What about your career?" He pressed, not sounding any less panicked.

Jo sighed, pushing herself up so that she could properly make eye contact. "Apparently Mycroft told him I was in the army. That's it."

"And he didn't say anything else? He didn't talk about his own time in the army?" He asked, beginning to relax a little.

She shook her head. "He didn't mention it."

Sherlock hummed and began to relax, so Jo let herself lay down again closing her eyes and listening to his breathing and heart-rate calm. When he seemed reasonably relaxed she gave him a squeeze and spoke up again.

“You do realize that I am going to have to interact with your family at some point,” she said quietly, trying to keep her voice as soothing as possible. “I do plan on sticking around for a very long time, and that is going to involve me being left alone with them. You need to come to terms with that.”

He squeezed her back, keeping his arms tight around her. “I know; that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” She asked, looking up at him again. “I know I’m a bit rough around the edges, but I promise that I won’t embarrass you too badly.”

Sherlock catapulted himself upright, displacing her almost violently. “That is not what I’m concerned about. Not at all.”

“Then what is it?” She pressed, sitting up as well. “Because it’s obviously something.”

He sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face. “It’s just that you’re amazing. You’re the best I could possibly imagine, let alone hope for. And I know them; they’re going to pick you apart. Even if you do everything right, they’re still going to rip you apart, and you deserve better than that.”

“Well that’s actually kind of sweet,” she answered, smiling at him. “But I can take care of myself. You need to stop worrying so much about me and at least try and enjoy yourself.”

He snorted and fell back against the mattress dramatically. “I just want to go home; I’m not going to enjoy myself. This is hell.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, laughing. “It’s not that bad.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not that bad? We’ve yet to completely convince my mother that we’re actually dating, and at some time in the next three days we’re going to announce our engagement, while somehow managing to keep your pregnancy a secret from a house of extremely observant geniuses. Yes, this sounds exactly like our idea of a good time.”

“Well we’ve always liked a challenge,” Jo answered, patting his stomach. “So let’s get to it then. Might as well find some breakfast; how am I to vomit five times today if I don’t eat first.”

Sherlock groaned. “It’s to early for that. We’re on holiday.”

“And we’re already up,” she replied, smiling. “It’s not like we’re going to get any more sleep this morning.”

He smirked, reaching up to tug at her. “Well we could do other things; sleeping isn’t all that you can do in a bed.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” She exclaimed, sounding overly affronted. “Are you coming on to me?”

He shrugged, his expression shuttering. “That depends. Are you feeling up to it?”

She grinned, leaning down for a kiss. “I think that I might be.” The detective hummed happily and wrapped his arms around her again, pulling her against him.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

By the time Sherlock and Jo finally made it down to breakfast, everyone else was already there. It was painfully quiet, and Jo felt awkward knowing that she was sitting at a table filled with people who could probably see exactly what she had been getting up to a little while before; it brought to mind what Sebastian Wilkes had said about Sherlock at uni, which also served to make her feel absurdly protective. Sherlock seemed to be suffering from the same self-consciousness because he was sitting there poking sullenly at the food on his plate instead of actually eating much of anything; to be fair, it wasn’t really uncommon for him to skip a meal, and Jo wasn’t exactly clearing her plate, but it was more the way in which he wasn’t eating rather than the act itself.

After everyone finished eating, Sherlock pulled Jo aside under the pretense of giving her a tour. He pointed out all of the most important rooms before leaving her in a small, out of the way study and going back to their room to retrieve some of the reading material they had brought. When he got back they settled in on one of the sofas, Jo reading a medical journal she had been meaning to catch up on and Sherlock was reading something on an e-reader that he refused to show her, which meant it was probably an Agatha Christie novel. Jo was curled up against his side and his arm was a comforting weight around her shoulders; they were almost, almost, able to forget that they weren’t back at Baker Street. They were still sitting like that when Evanna came in; Sherlock tensed, but Jo refused to move, more out of stubbornness than anything else.

Mrs. Holmes’ smile was syrupy sweet as she stood in front of them, her hands clasped in front of her. “Dr. Watson, you wouldn’t mind if I stole my son away for a little while, would you?”

Jo returned her smile, ignoring the way that Sherlock was staring at her pleadingly. “Of course not. Steal away.” She gave Sherlock a couple pointed pokes when he showed no sign of moving on his own; after a few moments he sighed heavily and stood up, dropping his reader in her lap.

“Will you be here when I’m done?” He asked, sounding oddly lost.

She nodded. “Sure. Or if I’m not, I’m sure you can find me; you are a detective, after all.”

He just glared, trying his best to look unamused as he followed his mother out of the room. Jo sighed and settled in to start reading again, refusing to feel lonely just because she was being left on her own for a little while. 


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock was beyond frustrated. His mother had kept him cornered for over an hour: complaining about what he wore, how often he visited, where he lived, and his job before forcing him to wear a jumper she had bought him. He had, at least, been able to convince her that he and Jo were actually in a relationship—not that the woman was overly thrilled with his choice in life partner. When she finally released him, he went to rejoin Jo, pleased to find her in the same room he had left her in, still reading. He paused at the door, feeling suddenly self-conscious about his change in attire. He shifted, contemplating changing out of the damned jumper even though he knew he would just have to change back again or face his mother’s scorn and a board creaked, alerting Jo to his presence. She looked up from her article and grinned, her whole face lighting up.

“This wasn’t my idea,” he began, gesturing to his sweater. “So you can’t make fun of me for it.”

She rolled her eyes and stood up. “Make fun of you? Why would I do that? You look gorgeous.”

“D-don’t tease,” he stammered, his face flushing at the unexpected praise.

Jo smirked, eying him up and down purposefully. “Who’s teasing? You honestly look great. Very touchable.” To prove her point, she walked across the room and stopped in front of him, bringing her hands up to rest on his waist. She rubbed her hands up and down his sides, smiling at the feel of soft cashmere. After a few moments she stepped even closer, pulling him into a hug and resting her cheek on his shoulder, breathing deeply. He hugged her back on instinct, still thrown off balance by her reaction.

He cleared his throat, feeling ridiculous for being flustered by something so simple. “So you really like it?” Jo nodded, not bothering to say anything, and he sighed, trying to sound more put out than he really was. “Well don’t get too used to it. I’m not suddenly going to change my wardrobe. Our house doesn’t need any more pathological jumper-wearers.” She chuckled and snuggled closer, not showing any sign letting him go in the near future; Sherlock certainly wasn’t complaining.

They were still standing like that a few minutes later when Jo’s phone chirped. The doctor tensed, turning so that she was hiding her face in his chest, and sighed deeply. Still, she didn’t seem liked she was getting ready to let him go; in fact, she had tightened her grip on her partner, bunching the fabric of his jumper in her fists. Confused as to why a text message she hadn’t even read would cause such a strong reaction, Sherlock increased the pressure of his embrace, rubbing his hands up and down her back in what he hoped was a soothing fashion.

Jo groaned, pressing her forehead more firmly into his chest. “I really should get that, but I really don’t want to.”

“What is it?” He asked, keeping his voice pitched low like he did with witnesses he didn’t actually want to terrify. “Work?”

“Worse,” she mumbled into his chest. “Mary.”

The detective frowned, stumbling in his movements. “And what exactly has Mary done to deserve such a reaction?”

“She’s helping me plan the wedding,” she said, heaving another sigh.

Sherlock frowned harder, if that were even possible. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Not at all, she replied, shaking her head as she detached to go retrieve her phone. “I’d be completely lost without her help. I have no idea what I would do if she weren’t helping.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. So what, exactly, is the problem then?”

“Weddings!” Jo exclaimed, gesticulating wildly. “Weddings are the problem! They’re ridiculous! And doing one on short notice is even worse! There’s a million things to do and no time to do them in. If I actually survive long enough to walk down the aisle with my sanity intact, then I’ll certainly be surprised.” She paused and checked her phone, shooting off a quick reply before groaning and tossing her phone onto the sofa. “And for the record, Mary is far too prepared for this; she has a subscription to no less than ten different bridal magazines, which is just ridiculous for anyone, let alone someone who is against commitment, marriage, and monogamy in general. And she has gotten me an appointment at a dress maker’s that specializes in short notice wedding dresses for pregnant women. I didn’t even know that that was a thing! How the hell does she know about that? She is the least likely person I know to need that information; she’s definitely not getting pregnant any time soon, and she’s about as likely to get married.”

“Well to be fair,” he started warily, “she probably researched that last one after you told her about our particular situation. And maybe she likes to live vicariously through magazines because she knows she’ll probably never have a wedding of her own. Or maybe she wanted to be prepared for when you decided to get married; I know that’s what I did before we got together.”

Jo frowned, her rant derailed. “You were preparing for me to get married.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, unsure if he was entering into dangerous conversational territory or not.

She chewed on her lip. “And did you read bridal magazines?”

“Once,” he admitted, his cheeks coloring. “While you were at that conference in Dublin. I thought that they might be informative, but I destroyed them before you got home.”

She nodded, biting back her laughter because she didn’t actually want to embarrass him any more than she really had to. “And do you remember anything useful from this foray into bridal fashion? Any lasting impressions?”

“Terror,” he answered quickly. “Absolute terror. And confusion, mostly. Why the hell would you release a flock of birds at a wedding? What possible purpose would that serve? And please tell me that you’re not planning on wearing one of those pastry-esque monstrosities.”

This time she did laugh. “No, no pastry dresses; or birds for that matter. Seriously though, why did you start researching weddings?”

He shrugged, deliberately not meeting her eye. “It seemed like the logical thing to do. You obviously weren’t entirely happy living at Baker Street, and you were looking for someone. It seemed inevitable that one of the men you brought home would be not-boring enough for you to keep them around, and that would, in turn, lead to marriage. It only seemed wise for me to be as prepared as possible to deal with you leaving; if I wanted to have a place in your life after you were no longer living with me, then it only made sense for me to research what I might have to do to stay.”

She closed her eyes, unsure of which piece of information she wanted to focus on. “The idea that you thought I would just kick you out of my life if we weren’t living together is mildly heartbreaking. It’s also concerning that the only thing you see as barring the success of my relationships is the relative boringness of my partners.”

“What else would it be?” He asked, sounding confused and ignoring the first part of her statement.

She stared at him for a moment before answering him. “Me, Sherlock; I’m the common denominator. It may have, by some miracle, managed to slip your notice, but I’m not really an easy person to get along with, and I’m not sure whether the fact that you haven’t seemed to notice is endearing or terrifying.”

“Why would it be terrifying?” Sherlock frowned, tilting his head to the side in his confusion kind of like a puppy, a tendency that Jo never failed to find adorable, even when she was upset.

Jo sighed, squeezing the bridge of her nose. “Because, you’re going to notice eventually, Sherlock; it’s inevitable. And what if you decide then that it’s not what you signed up for? Where does that leave me?”

He grimaced, looking both disgusted and offended. “What? You think that one day I’m suddenly going to become aware that you have communication issues and trust issues, and that you tend to let one thing fill every corner of your life, but that you compartmentalize everything else to an alarming degree? And then I’m going to leave you because of that? You’re amazing, Jo; only an imbecile would think that those things outweigh the fact that you’re kind and caring and smart and loyal and the most moral person I’ve ever met in my life. I can’t imagine giving you up over a few minor flaws, and anyone who thinks otherwise is such a complete idiot that I wonder how they manage to function.”

The doctor choked out a laugh, once again fighting back tears and cursing her increased levels of hormones. “You’re amazing, you know that? I have no idea how I got so lucky.”

Sherlock reached out and pulled her into a hug, not really sure what else to do. He was always knocked off balance by Jo’s tears, even when he knew that they probably weren’t a bad thing. Jo hugged him back tightly, taking deep breaths to ward of the hormone fueled emotions. She burrowed happily into his embrace, and he gently squeezed the back of her neck, easing at least some of the tension free. When it seemed as though she had at least somewhat relaxed, he pulled back a bit and tilted her face up so that she was looking at him.

“You don’t need to stress yourself out about the wedding,” he said soothingly. “We’ll work together, and Mary will help, and everything will get done; the absolute worst case scenario is that we get married with two or three witnesses and everyone else can just fuck off. Now, let’s sit down and we can make a list of things we need to get done. You like lists.”

“I do like lists,” Jo conceded, letting herself be led over to the sofa. They sat down, and Sherlock made a show of getting out his phone in order to take notes.

He cleared his throat. “Now, when is your dress appointment?”

“Tuesday afternoon,” she answered, double checking her phone to make sure.

He quickly typed it in and then smiled at her. “Great. So you’ll get the dress taken care of then, and you can ask her if she knows of any good decorators we can hire.”

“Sherlock,” she interrupted, sounding exasperated, “we can’t hire decorators until we have a venue, and I have no idea what to even look for in a venue, and there’s no way in hell we’re doing it in a church.”

He nodded, taking a deep breath to build up courage he really didn’t think he should need. “I think I have a venue, actually. My family has a smaller estate in Sussex; it’s the one I’ll inherit, being the second son and all that rot. It’s quiet and out of the way, and I think you’d really like it. We can go visit next weekend just to make sure, and if you don’t like it, then we’ll find somewhere else, but I think that you’ll like it. And it will be perfect for our families: your family won’t have to try and find someplace to stay in London, and my family will be happy because we’ll be getting married at a family estate, which is probably symbolic or something nonsensical like that.”

“Alright,” she agreed, feeling both overwhelmed and relieved.

He beamed. “Good. So we’ll tell my parents tonight at dinner, and we’ll get a guest list from them before we leave, and I’ll narrow that down to the people I can actually stand by the end of the week. Do you think you can come up with your half by then?”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” she replied, smiling at the thought of what a guest list comprised solely of people Sherlock didn’t despise would look like.

“And then we can send out invitations,” he continued, sounding almost cheerful; “I know a printer who owes me a favor. And Mycroft has already recommended a caterer—God knows that man would know which ones are good. And Angelo will do the cake; if we don’t ask him to do something then he’ll be offended, and he is amazing when it comes to desserts. And that just about covers all of the basics, right?”

Jo nodded slowly, feeling wary because it really couldn’t be that easy. “Just about. What about the rings? We need to pick out rings.”

“I’ll take care of the rings,” he promised, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “Now relax and stop worrying so much.”

She smiled and pushed herself up for a better kiss. “Alright, fine.” Sherlock chuckled and deposited her medical journal back in her lap, making a show of starting his reading up again even as he was keeping a close eye on her with his peripheral vision. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, as always, thank you for reading, and I hoped you liked it. I'd love to hear from you either here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com). 
> 
> In other news, this chapter ends the weekly updates for this story; I will now be updating on the first Sunday of every month. I had hoped that I'd be able to keep up with the regular schedule after running out of my pre-written material, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen. And on that note, I shall see you all a month from now.


	27. Chapter 27

“This is ridiculous,” Evanna Holmes proclaimed, clutching her cutlery so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “Yes, I understand, I shouldn’t have doubted the sincerity of your relationship. But this is going too far just to prove a point. You stop it, now.”

Sherlock grit his teeth and a voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Jo warned him that he was going to crack a tooth if he kept it up. “Mummy, you’re the one who is being ridiculous. Jo and I are getting married, and that is final. You would do well to accept that fact and stop embarrassing yourself.”

Evanna laughed, high and with a growing tinge of panic. “Oh I’m embarrassing myself? What about you, dear? Let’s suppose, just for a moment, that you and Dr. Watson are getting married. What exactly do you expect to happen? I’m sure that the good doctor has her charms, but do you really expect someone so ordinary to hold your interest for very long? And what happens if she wants children? Are you really going to mix your DNA with hers? She’s so… pedestrian.”

He slammed his hand on the table, rattling the place settings and uneaten lunch, making everyone jump. “That is enough! We are getting married whether you believe it or not, and I will not sit here and let you insult us like this. Let me know when you plan to be civil.”

He stood up and extended his hand to Jo, which she took without hesitation, and then led the way out of the room. He walked so quickly that Jo had to jog to keep up, and his grip on her hand was so tight as to almost be painful. She wanted to say something, anything, to comfort him, but she honestly couldn’t think of anything to say, and the thunderous expression on his face didn’t invite conversation. They climbed through the house, going up staircases so narrow and steep that Jo was convinced they couldn’t be up to code. Finally, they were as high as they could go, and after leading them through a few more narrow corridors, Sherlock burst into a tiny room that felt homier than anywhere Jo had been since leaving Baker Street. Sherlock led her over to the sofa, waiting until she was seated before finally letting go of her hand and starting his furious pacing.

Jo watched her partner pace back and forth and tried to come up with something, anything to say, but it seemed to be one of the rare situations where she came up blank. And so she just watched him pace, her heart breaking for him just a little bit, and wished that there was something she could do. After a few minutes, Sherlock came to a stop in front of her, and she looked up at him, patiently waiting for him to speak.

“I hate them,” he declared, still breathing heavily. “I hate them all. How dare they sit there and judge you. I can’t believe she…” he trailed off, not quite running out of steam, but obviously not wanting to continue all the same.

She reached out for him, pulling him down beside her on the sofa. “I know it’s not ideal, but you can’t let your mother get to you like this. I’m almost positive that she’s just looking to get a rise out of you. All we have to do is get through this weekend and then things can get back to normal. I promise, we don’t have to start spending our holidays with either of our families just because we’re getting married. Alright?”

“Alight,” he agreed, sound very nearly sulky. “But I want to go home now.”

The doctor sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I know, but it’s only a day and a half before we can leave. We’ll be gone before you know it.” She didn’t dare admit that she wanted to go back to London as well because she knew that if she said it out loud, there would be nothing stopping Sherlock from actually packing them up and sneaking out the back door while no one was looking.

“That is patently untrue,” he protested, like he always did when she said something similar. “I will be painfully aware of every moment between now and when we leave.”

She smiled indulgently at him and decided to change the subject. “So what is this place? I thought you said that your parents were to practical to keep your room for sentimental reasons.”

“I’m actually surprised it’s still here,” he admitted, his expression softening as he looked around. “They probably forgot that it even exists. I used to come up here and hide when I was home for holidays. It was always much quieter up here than anywhere else. I haven’t really been back long enough since to see if it was still here.”

Jo hummed, not really having anything to say to that. She looked around, interested in this window to her lover’s past, but after a few minutes she was struggling to keep her eyes open and so let them fall closed.

Sherlock looked down at her and chuckled. “Are you going to take a nap?”

“I might,” she replied sleepily, shifting in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. “If you’re willing to sit still and be slept on for a little while, that is.”

He shifted as well, guiding her to rest her head in his lap. “I don’t mind.”

“You won’t be bored?” She asked, getting comfortable once again.

He shook his head, carding his fingers through her hair. “No, I have my phone. Don’t worry about it.”

She hummed in acknowledgment, already drifting off to sleep.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Dinner was an awkward affair to say the least. Everyone ate in silence: Evanna looked as if she were sulking; Sherringford was reading the paper and ignoring everyone else; Mycroft inexplicably looked smug; Sherlock took turns glowering at his mother and brother, and Jo tried her best to focus only on her plate and pretend that she was anywhere but where she was. Once the meal was finally over and the dishes were being cleared away, Mr. Holmes put his paper down and cleared his throat.

“Sherlock,” he said, his voice almost monotone. “Since you’re now getting married, there are some legal issues that I need to discuss with you if you’ll please accompany me to my study.”

The detective sighed heavily and agreed, giving Jo a vaguely apologetic look, which she returned with her best attempt at a reassuring smile. After he had left with his father, she decided to get some fresh air, and take a walk. It was refreshing to get outside — she and Sherlock had spent the whole day inside — but she didn’t dare to wander too far for fear of getting lost, which was an embarrassment that she definitely did not need. She couldn’t see very much in the dark, but from what she could tell, she was walking through what she was sure was a beautiful garden; she cursed herself for not bringing a torch and resolved to try and convince Sherlock to take her on a tour before they left the next day.

Jo had been outside for almost an hour before she began to get cold and decided to head back. Unable to find the door she had exited through, she resigned herself to entering through the door she could find and subsequently getting lost while trying to find either her room or Sherlock, whichever came first. Unfortunately, the first Holmes that she was able to find was not Sherlock but Mycroft. Opening a door that she had hoped led to a staircase, she instead found the bureaucrat alone in yet another small study. She hesitated, unsure of whether she should stay and as for directions or just leave, and Mycroft seemed to make her decision for her. He stood up with one of his political smiles and gestured for her to come in.

“Dr. Watson, I’ve been meaning to get you alone for a little chat,” he said, motioning for her to take a seat. “But you know how Sherlock can be.”

She forced a smile, feeling defensive, which really was par for the course when it came to Mycroft. “By all means, let’s chat.” She had never once heard the elder Holmes use the word “chat,” and it’s appearance now was distinctly unsettling. Jo sat down nervously, not really sure what was going on. She forced a smile and did her best not to fidget. It rarely ended well when Mycroft said that he had been “meaning to talk” to her, but she was trying to remain optimistic.

He smiled again, sitting in a chair opposite hers. “Now, I think that this has gone on long enough, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?” She asked, her optimism quickly fading.

He gave her a hard look. “What is it that you want? I can offer you a more comfortable living, a place to make a home, and a position in a private clinic that would allow you more time at home than your current position ever will. These are things that a woman in your condition needs to think about.”

“Excuse me,” she said, her hands going still in her lap. “What exactly are you asking me to do in exchange for these… favors?”

He gave her a look that clearly told her to stop being deliberately obtuse. “You have to leave Sherlock. I understand that someone in your condition could find that daunting, but you really must think of what he’ll be wasting by staying and playing happy families with you. I am more than willing to help ease your way.”

She blinked, seriously considering just getting up and walking away before deciding that it was probably wise to deal with this issue once and for all. “Mycroft, listen very carefully because I really don’t think you fully grasp the situation that we are in. I am not leaving your brother; I’m going to marry him. There’s nothing you can say that’s going to change that, and you’re certainly not going to offer me any sort of bribe that’s going to be in any way effective. And, while we’re on the subject, you don’t have any right to talk about “my condition.” This is something that has nothing to do with you, and you’re not going to breathe a words about it to anyone. Because you may think that you have some sort of leverage over me, but I know that I have power over Sherlock, and if you make it a choice between you and me, I know who he’ll pick. Can you say the same?”

The politician looked briefly and subtly taken aback, but he recovered quickly. “And what about Miss Morstan? Do you think that she would agree with you about my impotence? There’s a lot of paperwork involved in running a tattoo parlor, and all it takes is for a few documents to get misplaced and then it’s an illegal operation that can easily be shut down.”She froze, her mind going blank for one horrible moment before she stood up, her hands clenched into angry fists. “You can go to hell.” She turned and marched out of the room without waiting for whatever smug comment he undoubtedly had to that.

Jo finally ended up in the room she shared with Sherlock. It was empty, which was disappointing. Suddenly, her legs felt like rubber and she staggered over to sit on the bed. Her hands were shaking now that the moment had passed, and she felt vaguely ill. She was torn, knowing that she needed to let Mary in on what had happened but unsure if she should talk to Sherlock first; there wasn’t exactly an established etiquette for things like this—although since she was marrying into the Holmes family, she supposed that she might have to establish one out of sheer self preservation. She hesitated, her indecision leaving her tied to the bed, her thoughts stuck in a panicked loop. There had been a very long time when she never could have imagined putting Mary at risk for anyone else, but now she hadn’t even had to think about it. The change in priority, while not exactly a new thing, felt like a betrayal. Luckily, she didn’t have to wait long before she heard footsteps coming and then Sherlock burst into the room, looking about as flustered as she had ever seen him.

He opened his mouth, obviously about to launch into an angry diatribe about whatever his father had done, but he froze as soon as he saw her, frowning in concern. “What’s wrong? What happened?” His eyes darted around, trying to gather enough data in order to deduce, but there just wasn’t enough evidence to be in any way conclusive.

“I, uh, I had a chat with Mycroft,” she said quietly, avoiding eye contact.

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat and his mouth went dry. “What did you say to you? You look like someone’s died.”

“He offered to pay me to leave you,” she replied, hurrying to the next sentence so that Sherlock wouldn’t panic too much. “I declined of course. But then he threatened to shut down Mary’s shop if I don’t leave you.”

His breath caught in his throat and his stomach started doing flips; he was going to kill Mycroft. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him to go to hell,” she replied, finally meeting his eyes. She forced a smile. “Obviously.”

He breathed out a sigh of relief, his heart doing some sort of acrobatics that were probably unhealthy. “Oh. Good. I’ll deal with him. I promise. He won’t do anything; he wouldn’t dare.”

“I told him that too,” she said, her smile turning more genuine. “I think it made him angry.”

Sherlock grinned. “Good. I’ll be right back. Call Mary; it’ll make you feel better.” He dropped a kiss to her forehead before striding determinedly out of the room. Jo fished her mobile out of her pocket, heaving a sigh of relief when Mary’s first concern was whether or not she had properly informed Mycroft of just where he could shove his easily misplaced documents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, it's been weird not posting every week, but I'm glad to get this chapter up. I hope that you like it and that it was at least somewhat worth the wait. I'd love to hear your thoughts, either here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com). I'll see you here next month!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've kind of just made up inheritance law/procedure for this. Let's all just agree to pretend like it makes sense. Okay? Thanks.

Jo had fallen asleep by the time Sherlock got back, but she woke up as he slipped into bed beside her. She tried to rouse herself enough to have a reasonable conversation, but Sherlock shushed her attempts, promising that they could talk about whatever she wanted in the morning. She agreed sleepily, grumbling about him pressing his icy feet against her shins until she dropped off again. If she had been more awake, she would have worried that he wasn’t going to sleep at all.

Jo woke up much earlier than she had really wanted to. She had forgotten to close the curtains the night before and the gray, pre-dawn light streamed peacefully into the room. She really didn’t mind, though, because she was warm and comfortable and she could feel Sherlock as a hot line against her back. She rolled over to face her partner, surprised to find blue-gray eyes watching her intently. Sherlock looked even paler than usual and his features were drawn with tension; his eyes were dark and bloodshot, and it was painfully obvious that he hadn’t slept at all.

She sighed, reaching up and cupping his cheek. “Why didn’t you sleep?”

“Thinking.” He replied predictably, not moving even to blink.

She sighed again, biting back her no doubt futile doctorly concerns. “What were you thinking about? It must have been important if it couldn’t wait until you had gotten some sleep.” That was patently untrue — he had once stayed awake for three days straight, brooding over the motives and reasoning Mrs. Hudson had for reminding them to do their taxes — but she had learned that it was much easier to get him to open up about what was going on inside his head if you started out non-confrontational.

“I hate them; I hate them all,” he said, his voice flat and matter of fact. “Mycroft thinks that you’ve somehow tricked me into wasting my potential by “playing happy family,” and my father thinks that you’ve somehow conned me into all of this so that you can get at the family money, and I never know what my mother is thinking — only that she’s very disapproving of the whole thing. They’re so stupid; why can’t they just see?”

Jo scooted even closer, wanting to comfort him with her presence at least. “They’re your family; it’s hard for them to see you as you really are and not as you were.”

“But it’s so obvious,” he protested, desperation leaking into his voice. “You make me happy; everyone else can see that — even if they don’t know why — so why can’t they? Shouldn’t happiness be enough?” He sounded desperate to be believed, which was just a little heartbreaking.

She nodded, pressing their foreheads together. “It should. Unfortunately, not everyone realizes that. We just have to ignore them for a few more hours and then we can go home and pretend that they don’t exist.”

“Fine.” He agreed, sounding a bit resigned.

She leaned in for a kiss, willing to ignore their morning breath in favor of offering some comfort. Sherlock pulled her even closer, some of the tension finally draining out of his shoulders. It was a slow and comfortable kiss, and when it ended, they didn’t really pull apart. Jo tucked her face into his neck and took deep breaths.

“How are you feeling ?” He asked after a few moments, keeping his voice low and non-disruptive.

She shrugged, sighing heavily. “Alright; I normally don’t have to vomit until after I eat, though, so who know how I’ll feel after breakfast.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied, frowning. “I wish I could make you feel better.”

She smiled fondly. “I know, but it’s only for a few more months, and then our child will be distinctly less parasitic.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he hummed, brushing their noses together.

Jo waited for a few moments before broaching her next subject. “So what did you and your dad talk about last night? I didn’t get the chance to ask you before you went off to terrify Mycroft, but you looked upset.”

He sighed heavily, pressing their foreheads together again. “He doesn’t trust you; he wants us to sign a pre-nuptial agreement.”

“We can do that if you want,” she said cautiously. “I don’t mind, and it doesn’t really seem like something worth fighting over.”

Sherlock shook his head, his muscles going tense with obvious frustration. “I don’t want a pre-nup. I don’t want to give them any more ammunition against you. And if something were to happen, I don’t want them to have any reason to not give you what you’re entitled to. I know them, Jo, and I know that if I were to die they would use a prenup to try and say you shouldn’t get everything. I want you and our child to get everything I have; I don’t want to complicate matters with unnecessary paperwork.”

“Alright,” she agreed easily. “Whatever you want. Just know that you can change your mind about this.”

He huffed and rolled his eyes. “How often do I change my mind about anything?”

“Good point,” she conceded. “You are a stubborn bastard.”

He smiled and pulled her closer, doing something he would never refer to as snuggling. “And aren’t you glad about that?”

She hummed but didn’t say anything. They lay there quietly, not moving or saying anything. Jo was warm and comfortable, and she had no desire to move even as her hunger began to make itself known. After a few minutes her stomach growled loudly, breaking the silence.

Sherlock chuckled. “Come on, I guess we should get you breakfast.”

“I don’t want to,” she complained. “Can’t we just stay here and never eat again?”

He shook his head, smiling fondly. “No such luck. My doctor has informed me that eating every day is very important.”

“Oh? And when did you start listening to your doctor?” She grumbled, knowing that she was fighting a losing battle.

He smiled, kissing the crease between her eyes. “Only a fool ignores their doctor.” She glared but let him pull away, sitting up when he prompted her to. After a bit more prompting, she gave up completely and started getting ready for the day.

Breakfast was incredibly awkward. The three Holmeses were sulking; Sherlock was obviously feeling defensive, and since someone had decided to serve quiche, the smell of eggs was making her want to vomit. They are in silence, Jo nibbled on dry toast and tried not to gag; Sherlock kept his arm around her shoulders in a possessive/protective gesture that Jo couldn’t bring herself to mind. He had pushed their chairs together so that they were pressed against each other, and Jo found herself leaning more and more into his warmth. Eventually, she gave up eating altogether and rested her head on his shoulder, letting her eyes fall shut. She was still tired and as time ticked by, falling asleep began to look more and more attractive.

She was just starting to get really comfortable when Evanna broke the silence. “It’s such a nice day today that I thought we could all go for a walk. It would be nice to have some bonding time since my boys are leaving this afternoon.”

Jo felt Sherlock sigh, but he didn’t offer any protestations, so she figured that she best resign herself to taking a family stroll. She pried open her eyes and immediately had to force back a smile when she aw the nearly identical expression of distaste on the brothers’ faces. For some perverse reason, the idea that no one was going to enjoy this walk made her feel much better about having to take it. In fact, by the time they set out into the morning air she was in a pretty good mood; apparently a sulking Mycroft was all it took to raise her spirits.

She and Sherlock walked arm in arm, and while it wasn’t quite as good as their rambles through London, but it was pleasant enough. Unfortunately, the peace didn’t last very long, and after a few minutes Evanna announced that she wanted some quality time with “her boys.” She pulled the brothers aside and linked her arms through theirs. The trio began to slow their pace, and soon Jo and Sherringford were walking together, several meters ahead of the others. After a few minutes, the man cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Did Sherlock tell you about the discussion he and I had last night?” He kept his voice purposefully neutral in a way that never failed to be dangerous.

Jo began to feel deliberately ambushed. “A little.”

“I’m sure that he was very indignant,” he said, offering her a stiff smile. “My son is nothing if not melodramatic, as I’m sure you well know.

“I assure you that it’s not nearly as awful as he made it out to be. People like you and me are much more practical. A family like mine has a few more concerns that your average family, and we have to be a bit more discerning in order to protect ourselves. I’m sure that you understand.”

She hummed, letting him interpret that as he will as she focused on not becoming overtly defensive.

He smiled, looking pleased with whatever answer he though she had given. “So you see the need for some precautionary paperwork. It would also protect whatever children you and Sherlock have. SO you see, it really is in everyone’s best interests for you to convince Sherlock to sign the papers.”

“Sherlock doesn’t want a prenup,” she said simply.

Sherringford sighed, looking exasperated. “There are a lot of things that Sherlock doesn’t want to do even though he should. That is why we must… encourage him to do the right thing. I’m sure that you will be instrumental in that process. Perhaps you can even convince him to find a more sensible career plan; surely a woman in your condition can appreciate the advantages of that.”

“I think that you’ve misunderstood how exactly this is going to work,” she said, standing still in order to make her point more clearly. “I’m not here to help you gang up on him. I’m not going to help you manipulate him into doing what you think he should, and I’m certainly not going to try and make him quit what he does; he’s brilliant at it, and I wouldn’t change him for the world — let alone you. I will always be on his side, and you are not going to use me against him. I won’t allow it.”

He smiled condescendingly. “And what about him being used against you?”

“Pardon?” She asked, feeling her temper begin to rise.

He smirked. “We don’t actually need you two to sign a prenuptial agreement, you know; it’s just that easiest way to do things. There are other avenues available to us.

“For instance, Sherlock is owed the inheritance of a second son, but there are limits to what he can do with it. Significant restrictions can be placed on his access in order to preserve the inheritance for future generations. We can then request DNA testing on any of his supposed children in order to release those funds upon their confirmation.”

“If you seriously think that I’m going to be worried by that threat, then you have grossly underestimated the depth of my loyalty.” She replied, narrowing her eyes.

Sherringford gave her a disappointed look that was very reminiscent of Mycroft’s. “In the end, the depth of your loyalty doesn’t really matter. For those of us with the right means, a simple DNA test doesn’t pose much of a problem at all. My son is a man of science, Dr. Watson. Regardless of how he feels about you, do you really think that he would trust your word over scientific evidence? You are away from home quite a bit; your child not being his is more than probably. You should not underestimate the power I have, Doctor. I would much prefer us to get along, but it’s not necessary. So you should choose quickly how exactly you want this to work, but remember, the rest of your life is a very long time to wage a war with your child as a bargaining chip.”

Jo took a deep breath and stepped closer, maintaining eye contact even though she had to crane her neck to do so. “I think that you need to ask Mycroft how well trying to bully me has worked for him. Because your son would terrify Machiavelli, and if he hasn’t managed to either scare me off or intimidate me into compliance, then how the hell do you think you’re going to manage any better? But by all means, feel free to keep trying; we have the rest of our lives to play this game of high stakes poker you’ve set up for us. But I’d really rather us get along, so I’m going to give you a tip that you might have missed when you were working your way up through the ranks. Never play poker with the base doctor; we read people for a living, and having a great poker face is practically one of the job requirements.

“So, by all means, keep playing, but I’m pretty sure that I have the winning hand.” She waited for just a moment to make sure that her point had been made before turning and walking back towards the others. She stopped in front of Sherlock and looked up at him. She tried to keep her expression blank even though she knew it would be worse than useless in her present company.

“I’m leaving now,” she told him quietly. “I don’t want to leave you without the car, so I’ll call a cab. We can meet up at the station later.”

Sherlock shook his head, frowning. “Don’t be ridiculous. You not calling a cab; I’ll go with you. You can even drive if you like.” He tacked on that last bit as if she needed incentive to let him leave with her.

“Alright,” she said, smiling up at him. “You should probably lead the way, though; I’d rather not get lost.”

He nodded, leaning down to place a distracted kiss on his mother’s cheek. “We’ll let you know when we set a date; it should be soon.”

Evanna gaped at him, obviously taken aback. “You’re just going to leave? We haven’t even finished our walk!”

“I’m sure that we’ll all survive,” he commented dryly. He freed his arm from her grip and reached for Jo’s hand, not hesitating before leading the way back towards the house.

“So, why do you need to leave right now?” He asked once they were a suitable distance away from his family.

Jo shrugged, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious about the whole thing. “Proving a point, mostly. They seem to think that they can use us against each other. I just wanted to prove that you’re on my side as much as I’m on yours.”

“What on earth did my father say to you?” He asked, sounding alarmed.

She shrugged again, looking a bit uneasy. “I’ll tell you later. Right now, all I want is to get out of here.”

“Why don’t you go wait in the car, then,” he suggested. “I’ll go get our things. It’ll be quicker.”

She agreed, going up on tip toes to kiss his cheek before they parted ways.

Jo sat in the driver’s seat and waited for her partner. Her heart was pounding, but her hands were still steady. A fairly large part of her just wanted to say to hell with the Holmeses and wash her hands of the whole affair, but an even larger part knew that she had made her decision a long time before, and no amount of running was going to change that. She took deep breaths in order to cam herself down. She reminded herself that things would go back to normal as soon as they were home, and then they could go back to pretending that neither of their extended families existed. By the time Sherlock tossed their bags into the back and got into the passenger seat, she was able to give him a smile that was mostly genuine.

They drove in silence. For once, Sherlock seemed to be letting Jo pick her own timing for their conversation. The doctor, for her part, wanted to put as much distance between them and his family as she reasonably could while still keeping the discussion private. After about forty-five minutes she decided that it was now or never and took a few deep breaths to work up her nerve.

“Sherlock,” she began, hoping that her tone of voice didn’t scare him. “I need you to know that there is absolutely no chance that this baby isn’t yours.”

“What the hell are you on about?” He demanded, sounding distinctly alarmed. “Of course I trust you.”

She shook her head, hating that she had to push the issue. “No, that’s not good enough. It’s not just an improbability; it is — barring some sort of twisted immaculate conception — an impossibility. Please, Sherlock you have to believe that. It has to be more than just trusting me.”

“Jo, I don’t understand. What the hell happened on that damn walk?” He sounded desperate and Jo wished that she could better comfort him.

She sighed heavily. “Sherringford isn’t very happy that I refused to make you sign a prenup. He told me that if I didn’t cooperate, then he could force a paternity test in order to release your inheritance. He also said that it wouldn’t matter if the test showed that it was yours because he could make it say whatever he wanted it to.

“So I just wanted to tell you that regardless of what a test might say, I’m not lying to you. I mean, I don’t lie to you as a general rule — talk about an exercise in futility — but I would never lie about something like this. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment — more than long enough for Jo to start to get really nervous again — before heaving a sigh. “Of course I believe you. Did he really think that you wouldn’t tell me this?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, shaking her head.

“Or does he think that I care so much about their damn money that it wouldn’t matter if I knew or not?” He continued, obviously getting more upset.

“I don’t know.” She repeated, feeling very tired all of a sudden.

He looked over at her and sighed again. “Jo, you shouldn’t worry about them. I’ll take care of it; I promise.”

She heaved a sigh of her own. “I just want to go home and forget this weekend ever happened.”

“We can do that,” he answered, reaching for her hand because he didn’t really know what else to do.

Jo squeezed his hand, glad that she had at least been right about Sherlock being on her side; suddenly, things didn’t seem quite so daunting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, it's been weird not posting every week, but I'm glad to get this chapter up. I hope that you like it and that it was at least somewhat worth the wait. I'd love to hear your thoughts, either here or over at [my Tumblr](http://www.theravensdesk.tumblr.com). I'll see you here next month!


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